


the measure of the year

by BeautifulSoup



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, just a whole bunch of tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulSoup/pseuds/BeautifulSoup
Summary: A chronicle of the year following the return of magic to England, through the lens of two particular magicians.
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 199
Kudos: 103





	1. prologue - february 1817

**Author's Note:**

> Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;  
>  There are four seasons in the mind of man:  
> He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear  
>  Takes in all beauty with an easy span:  
> He has his Summer, when luxuriously  
>  Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves  
> To ruminate, and by such dreaming high  
>  Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves  
> His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings  
>  He furleth close; contented so to look  
> On mists in idleness—to let fair things  
>  Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.  
> He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,  
> Or else he would forego his mortal nature.  
> \- _John Keats_

Hurtfew, when Childermass approached with Vinculus, was obscured by what he knew on sight to be Strange’s famed Pillar of Night. He had read of it in the papers, in the letters from Norrell’s supporters, had made something of the form of it out in his own cards ( _La Maison Dieu_ and _La Lune_ had appeared over and over when he had asked about Strange in Venice until he had dreamt of them stacking endlessly and looming over him). Seeing it before him, gargantuan and swirling, he knew – as if on instinct – that he should not enter. If he so much as dipped his toe into the shadow of the tower he would be trapped forever. It was not a fate he fancied for himself. He instead regarded it from afar, watching the otherworldly constellations cutting through the grey winter sky.

“If I am your shadow and you are mine, then what is casting this one?” Vinculus sounded as awed as Childermass had ever heard him, but his usual mocking tone still managed to undercut it. “ _A dark tower upon a dark hillside_ …” he sang before Childermass could give an answer. “The prophecy I bore is still passing, Reader.”

“I wouldn’t sound so cheerful about it if I were you. That was your chance for a feather bed this evening,” Childermass pointed out to him, but unease swirled within him. He remembered the dizzying halls of Starecross thick with the fairy’s enchantment, felt the same magic emanating from the tower a hundredfold. “We cannot enter.” _My best chance_ , thought Childermass _, is vanished into this false night_.

The books were out of reach, Norrell was out of reach, his home was out of reach. It did not matter to him that he had been turned away from that home mere hours ago, as he stared into the black column rising from the Yorkshire earth, unable to make out even the bridge over the river or the gable end of a stable. There was a curious feeling of absence in his chest, something plucked neatly out when he had been focusing on other things.

He turned Brewer around and trotted on to Highfield farm. There he found Lucas, Davey, and another handful of servants. They greeted him warmly and eyed Vinculus with the kind of suspicion one can only muster if he has had to manhandle the person in sight, and knows him to be a trespasser and a thief.

“He has made himself useful,” was the only answer Childermass gave when questioned, and all the explanation they needed from him.

Lucas explained – in such a rush it was hard to keep up – what had happened in the house. The appearance of Strange and the darkness, how they had decided to leave with the animals and their own belongings, of Lascelles’ objections, of the man’s disappearance down the fairy road. Lucas could not hide his anger at the gentleman, but Childermass did not chide him.

“We warned him,” Lucas finished, “but he would not listen. He branded us all cowards and strode down it as if it were Hanover-street!”

Childermass gave a snort and a short, humourless laugh. He did not give voice to his opinion that the gentleman no doubt deserved whatever fate awaited him. He rubbed at his cheek, which itched.

“You did right, coming away, whatever Mr Lascelles might have said.”

“What will become of us, sir?” Davey asked, stepping up beside Lucas, his hands clasped nervously before him. It was a strangely childlike gesture to see on such a large, powerful man. “Are we still in Mr Norrell’s service?”

“I do not know. When I have figured this thing out I shall speak to the solicitors. I daresay there is little standing for this in law, and there will be a great deal of debating. We will find some sort of employment for you in the meanwhile. Stay here tonight, if Hodgson will suffer you. I will send word by tomorrow, I promise you.”

With an idea forming, he pulled Vinculus to sit behind him once more on Brewer’s back and cantered off in the direction of Starecross.

Arriving at the Hall was like stepping into the aftermath of a storm. The landscape seemed transformed, although in truth he had never been well enough acquainted with the surrounds to be able to pin-point the change. The inhabitants seemed nervous, and even from a distance he could see the way they danced around the yard in uncertainty.

He slowed Brewer, let him cool down the last distance as soon as he could see there was no disaster at the house. White froth was building at the edge of the saddle and Childermass could feel the horse’s sides heaving for breath. He threw himself from the beast’s back as soon as he arrived at the stables.

Segundus was there waiting for him, his face scrunched in confusion at the sight of Vinculus.

“Mr Childermass! Who… What… Why…” He could see the questions swarming Segundus’ head, but he could not seem to give voice to any of them.

“I will explain later.” He pushed past Segundus to the main hall. “Where is the lady?”

“Sir, your face!” Segundus cried when Childermass turned. The urgency in Segundus’ voice was enough to halt him, make him tilt his head to regard him.

“I know it is not a handsome one, Mr Segundus, but I do not think it is so noteworthy as all that.”

Segundus was looking at him intently, but not precisely _at_ him. His gaze seemed to travel the edges of him, and for a moment his hand came up as if to brush something from Childermass’ shoulder. He caught himself just before he made contact and instead brought his hand to his chest, gently curled. The intensity of this study made Childermass shift his feet, unused as he was to being on the receiving end of such a look.

The movement seemed to bring Segundus out of his trance.

“It is the queerest thing.” His voice had lost its edge, had gone gentle, wondering. Childermass levelled him an unimpressed stare. Colour rose to Segundus’ cheeks, and he stepped forward as he hastened to explain. “Not half a day ago that cut was fresh and bleeding, now it looks as if it has been healed for years.”

Childermass looked at him for a moment, frowning. He brought his hand up to his cheek, stroked the faint silvery scar. He caught a flash of memory, or something like it. There was no way of telling if it was a dream.

_A pale hand, fingers grazing his cheek. The shape of a man. A lapwing in flight._

“That cannot-” He started, voice catching in his throat, making it even rougher than usual. “I do not-” He cut himself off once more and looked down at the blood-stained collar of his shirt, the splash of red on his neckcloth.

_A hawthorn tree, bent and twisted by the wind over the moors. The shiver of blue-stained limbs on snow. A hand over his heart._

“There is magic all around you,” Segundus said, his voice no more than a breath. “But it is like an echo, as if… As if you were not the one to shout, but the cave which heard it.” Segundus took in a sharp breath and looked up to Childermass’ face with a curious frown. “What happened, Mr Childermass?”

“I do not know.” His breath left him in a gust as his eyes met Segundus’. He searched himself for something more than fleeting images and impressions. He felt as though there was a part of himself that had been locked away, a chest or a box just big enough to contain an event, but which leaked the feelings of it. They could build boxes for snuff and for fingers, he supposed, but not for memories.

He remembered Lascelles cutting him, remembered the white pain of it and the chill of cooling blood on his cheek, and knew it had happened only hours since. He felt it now and it was healed, just a thin line where there should be a raw, ragged gorge in his skin. He could not reconcile the two. When he tried he felt dizzy.

“Oh my!” He heard Segundus’ exclamation from a distance, and only came back to himself as the gentleman was lowering him into a chair. Childermass pushed insistently to his feet.

“I do not have time for this! I need to speak to the lady!”

“Mr Childermass, you are not-”

“I am fully aware of what I am and am not, Mr Segundus. Now take me to Lady Pole.”

The lady agreed to speak to Childermass, so Segundus settled them in her sitting room with some tea and cake. He seemed glad of it, as he had always struck Childermass as the sort of man who went rather to pieces when he didn’t have a task to complete. There seemed to be a short, urgent discussion with Charles about the rest of the servants, but Childermass heard little of it as he steered Vinculus away from Lady Pole and towards the chaise by the window.

“What do you know of the tower of darkness?” Childermass asked as soon as he entered the room. Lady Pole bristled a little to be addressed so, but answered sharply.

“Very little. I know my captor was particularly proud of his punishment.”

“It is the fairy’s doing?”

“Who else’s would it be?” Lady Pole asked drily.

Childermass let out an impassioned curse that brought more colour to Segundus’ cheeks than to Lady Pole’s.

“What does this mean?” Segundus asked gently, looking between them.

“If it was Strange’s magic then we might have had some chance at countering it and saving them,” Childermass explained, pushing his hands through his ragged hair. He winced as his thumb caught in a knot. “There is no one alive in England who knows how to end a fairy’s Enchantment. Your ladyship was-” he cut himself off, thought the better of his words in the present company. He doubted any of the people in the room would consider Lady Pole _lucky_. “The token was a way to end your ladyship’s Enchantment, but we have nothing like that in the case of the tower.” He sighed and settled back into the chair. He took a deep draught of tea, near emptying his cup in one swallow. “Perhaps the death of the enchanter would do it, but-”

“Oh,” Segundus said, sitting up. “But he is dead.”

Childermass stopped with the cup halfway to his lips and stared at Segundus with all the weight he could muster.

“You might have mentioned that earlier,” Childermass said gruffly, and Segundus prickled, his shoulders shifting visibly under his jacket.

“We didn’t know of the darkness,” Lady Pole said coolly. “And quite frankly I am not in a mood to care much what happens to either of them, not when Mrs Strange might still be trapped, and with Stephen…” She swallowed and turned her head, but it was too late to hide the gleam of tears in her eye.

In order to allow her time to collect herself, Segundus went over what had happened since Childermass had ridden out that morning. They had had a busy morning of it, it seemed, and Segundus himself seemed to not quite believe the half of it. Childermass listened attentively and did not interrupt, while Lady Pole nodded her agreement and interjected with her own details. When he was done, Childermass told of what had happened to him – how he had come across Vinculus and heard the tale of the Book, how he had ridden back to Hurtfew to consult with Norrell and Strange but found the house unapproachable.

“Do you know what has happened to Mrs Strange?” asked Lady Pole, when the tales of both Starecross and Hurtfew had been related. Childermass shook his head.

“I was supposed to receive a message along with your finger, whether a letter or something else I do not know. That may have held an answer.”

“There is the spell of location in Ormskirk,” Segundus said tentatively, and continued more rapidly when they both turned to look at him. “I have never had much success with it, but Mr Strange sent me some clarifications to it a few years ago. Perhaps with this new rush of magic…?”

Seeing that neither of them was about to oppose him, Segundus leapt to his feet and rushed from the room, not even excusing himself in his excitement. He appeared again moments later clutching a letter and a silver basin, breathing rather heavily and calling to his servant for some water from the brook.

As Segundus filled the bowl with water, Childermass watched intently.

“I have never attempted it myself, sir,” he said, “but I have seen my- I have seen Norrell do it many times.”

“If it works, we should be able to-”

“Narrow down and find the lady’s whereabouts, yes.” They were both standing over the bowl, looking in eagerly like two schoolboys. Lady Pole remained in her seat. Although her eyes were hopeful and curious, Childermass could feel her reluctance to approach the magic too closely.

Glittering lines cut the bowl into sections, and Segundus could not contain his cry of delight. “This is the closest I have ever got,” he apologised to Childermass with a bright smile only briefly before turning back to the spell. “Heaven, Hell, Earth, Faerie,” he muttered, labelling each of the quarters. Childermass breathed in sharply as a small spot glowed in one quarter. “She is free! She is no longer in Faerie!”

Segundus quartered the bowl again. Scotland, England, Ireland, Elsewhere. The spot glowed in Elsewhere.

“Where could she be?” Lady Pole cried. She was standing now, too, peering into the bowl intently.

Segundus quartered the surface once more. Europe, Asia, America, Elsewhere. The spot was firmly in Europe. He quartered again, faster each time. France, Germany, Italy, Elsewhere.

“Italy!” Lady Pole cried. Segundus quartered again.

“There was a story,” Childermass said slowly, “that Strange moved his tower only once, when he went from Venice to Padua.”

Segundus nodded and, pressing his lips together, named the quarters Venice, Padua, Rome, Elsewhere. The spot appeared in Padua.

“Can we see her?” Lady Pole asked enthusiastically. “Can I see her?”

Segundus hesitated. Strange had told him the form of the thing, he explained, but (like most magic) he had never quite managed it. His gaze flickered to Childermass, his lips pressed together.

“If there is a day for attempting new magic, sir,” Childermass said, hoping that the confidence swelling within his breast would come through in his voice and bolster this newly hewn magician. “It is surely today. Look what you have achieved already.”

Segundus met his gaze and regarded him steadily for some moments, until a smile jerked across his mouth. He reached towards the bowl and cast the spell.

In a few short moments they were gazing at Arabella Strange, surrounded by strangers who were looking at her and were either crying, laughing, or baffled. Mrs Strange seemed to fit into the last category, along with a very sensible-looking middle-aged gentleman.

“Oh, my dear friend!” Lady Pole cried, tears in her eyes as she laughed joyously.


	2. march 1817

Segundus watched with no small amount of curiosity as Childermass dealt and turned his cards over and over on the empty seat. They had been travelling for some hours, and Childermass had been consulting his cards for most of that time. He sometimes seemed satisfied with what he saw in the pictures, sometimes irritated, sometimes amused; to Segundus they were as impenetrable as the carvings of Egypt, the images sometimes revealed for such a short time that he could not even get an idea of what the picture showed before Childermass swept the cards back into his hand to shuffle once more.

“What do you read in them?” Segundus asked when his curiosity could no longer be restrained.

“Only what I ask of them.”

“And what is that?”

Childermass looked up at him with a shadow of amusement in his eyes. “How we will fare in this venture, what the outcome might be, what the posting inn might be serving for dinner.”

“Could you read me?”

Childermass fixed him with another look he could not interpret.

“I don’t require my cards for that, sir.” Segundus thought there might have been a laugh tucked away at the corner of his mouth. “But if it will please you.” He inclined his head to Segundus and shuffled his cards. He laid nine cards out face down on the bench in front of them.

“How does it work?” Segundus asked, leaning forward.

“Three for the past, three for the present, three for the future,” Childermass said, moving the sections slightly apart as he spoke. “Let us see what he have, then.”

He turned the first three cards over, revealing the crudely rendered pictures. _Six de Coupe_ , _XIII_ (a card without a name, but with a picture of a skeletal figure wielding a scythe. Segundus shivered at the sight of it), _Cinq de Deniers_. Childermass studied these for a moment, his fingers grazing the middle card lightly.

“You had a happy childhood, better than most could wish for, but it was brought to an end, I think because of a death. This card can be metaphorical, but here I feel it is literal. A parent, perhaps?” He looked at Segundus, his eyes curious. Segundus nodded. “That death brought you to financial trouble.”

He turned over the next three. _Huit de Deniers, Cavalier de Coupe, Sept de Baton_.

“You have been dedicated to your studies. This,” he said, tapping the middle card with a smile, “represents you. I have seen it before and that is what I have come to see in it. Your main preoccupation is your profession, and this last tells me that you are finally feeling confident in it, and you are starting to see some success.” He looked up at Segundus, and there was a definite twinkle of amusement in his eye. “But we knew that.”

He turned the last three. _XVIII Le Soleil, VI L’Amoureux, Roy de Coupe_. Childermass laughed, and the suddenness of the reaction seemed to surprize him as much as Segundus.

“What is it?” Segundus asked. He was nonplussed to find he was nervous.

“There are a number of ways I could read these.” He put his hand flat beside the cards, his thumb toying along the edge of the King of Cups. “But it is a positive set, no matter how it is interpreted.” He shook his head at some private joke. “You will make a success of things, and be in control of your own actions for the first time. These two,” he tapped the last two cards, “could mean a number of things. I am tempted to say it means you will make choices which will increase your knowledge of yourself.”

“What else could it mean? You say you are tempted to _say_ that, but not what you truly think it means.”

“I think it means you will fall in love with a person of some importance.”

“Oh!” Segundus could feel his cheeks heating under Childermass’ amused gaze. He asked as a distraction, “How does it work? What is the magic?”

“There is no magic to it, far as I know. Certainly no conscious magic, it is not like casting a spell. It is practice and knowledge combined.”

Little as he knew of the art, Segundus was inclined to believe Childermass on this point. He was getting used to the sensation of magic being done – the itch just beneath his skin, the tingle at the crook of his elbow – that accompanied most feats of magic, no matter how small. He could feel nothing of the sort as Childermass read his cards.

The rest of the journey was taken up with Childermass patiently explaining the cards and answering Segundus’ questions. He spoke at length and with a natural authority, describing the minor arcana: how the suit of cups represented emotion and how it stood, in Childermass’ mind, for magic. The wands were action and inspiration, the coins money and career, the swords thought and logic. The court cards, he explained, sometimes represented people. This was why he had known Segundus for the Knight of Cups, magic and studiousness personified, with intuition running through him.

“That could describe any number of people,” Segundus pointed out. “It seems to me there is a imprecision to this form of divination. Cast the net wide enough and you can tell anyone’s story.”

“You were unhappy with my reading?”

“Oh, no, sir! It was most edifying, and most correct. I just do not see-”

Childermass laughed. “You are unconvinced.” He carried on with his lesson, shuffling the cards and showing them in turn to Segundus, describing the major arcana as they appeared. He told him of the meanings of each, of how that meaning shifted depending on its position in the spread and which cards lay near it. They carried on in this way until it grew too dark inside the carriage to see the cards, even once the lantern was lit.

“It is like mixing paint,” Segundus put forward, uncertain, when Childermass had finished. This earned him an expression of such open curiosity that he felt a rush of confidence to continue. “Red will combine for a different meaning with blue than it will with yellow.”

“You are a quick study, sir, and remarkably perceptive,” Childermass laughed. “The important thing is to frame the question correctly. If you ask the wrong question you will receive the wrong answer.”

“What did you ask for my reading?”

“I merely asked them to tell me about John Segundus, that is all.” He sighed and leaned back in his seat, an eye on Segundus. “Getting the history of people is easy, it is written all over them and they carry it with them wherever they go. It is the more precise questions that are more difficult.”

“The last cards, my future,” Segundus said, feeling his cheeks heat, although he was uncertain why they should. “Is there a way to narrow the meaning?”

“There is,” Childermass said, but offered nothing more than a teasing smile. They passed a few minutes in silence, Segundus looking at the blackness out the window and Childermass looking at Segundus. “It doesn’t do to rely on them too much,” he explained. “The cards are to act as guides, not dictators.”

“Which card represents you?” Segundus asked. “If I am the _Cavalier de Coupes_ , and Norrell is _L’Ermite_. There must be one which you know as yourself.”

“That is a very personal question, sir.”

“Indeed? I meant no imposition, I-”

“It is quite alright.” That odd glint of amusement had returned to Childermass’ eye. “I used to think of myself as the _Valet de Batons_ , but I feel my position has changed recently.”

Segundus’ next question was interrupted by the carriage rolling to a stop and Davey opening the door.

“We’re at Grantham, sirs.”

“Get the horses settled for the night then, Davey,” Childermass said, scooping his cards into his pocket. “I’ll get the rooms sorted out.”

There were, it turned out, two rooms available at the inn. The innkeeper thought this fine, as it provided a room each for Segundus and Childermass, and there was a room over the stables for Davey and Lucas.

“No, sir,” Childermass said, bristling. “The men will have a proper bed, they have more need of it than I do. I will take the stable bed.”

“Indeed you will not, Mr Childermass!” Segundus objected. “I daresay if Davey and Lucas can share then we can too. Unless it is disagreeable to you, but I must say I have no objection.”

Childermass turned to level a look at him, heavy and penetrating. Segundus met it and held it until Childermass shrugged. The innkeeper watched this silent exchange warily, but was glad to take the money Childermass pushed over to him with a gruff, “You heard the gentleman.” He took the room keys from the innkeeper and handed one to Segundus before leaving in a swirl of his black coat.

“I’ll send up some hot water and towels for you, sir,” the innkeeper said uncertainly, his eyes on the door Childermass had just left through.

Segundus was overcome with the urge to apologise to the man, to explain Childermass to him, but found he was unable to. He settled for a simple thank you and went through to the public parlour to wait.

“You did not have to do that, sir.”

Segundus, who had started reading and become engrossed as he waited, nearly leapt from his skin at the sound of Childermass’ voice. He slid neatly into the chair across from Segundus and pushed a tankard of hot spiced ale over the table to him.

“I wanted you banished to the stables as little as you wanted Davey and Lucas,” Segundus explained. “Are they joining us?”

“Nay,” said Childermass. “They prefer the company in the back of house.”

Segundus looked up at him at that. There had been a queer note in his voice. “And you?”

He knew of the fondness Childermass had for the Hurtfew servants, how hard he had worked in negotiating with Mr Robinson the terms of their employment with Norrell given the unusual circumstances. He remembered the intensity in his eyes when he had come to Starecross to put forward the idea of hiring on the displaced workers, “ _as Charles and Henry might do you well enough for now, but as your business grows, sir, you will be glad for staff with experience of working for a magician.”_ He had seemed taken aback at Segundus’ eagerness, as if he had been prepared for a fight, and at his offer of using Starecross as a meeting place where Childermass could inform them of developments without putting out the likes of Mr Hodgson.

He hoped Childermass felt under no obligation to keep him company now if he would rather spend time with the others, and was about to give voice to this when Childermass spoke.

“A man can take a great deal of comfort among his own class,” he said carefully, “but I find myself content in the current company.” He added, “Meaning no disrespect, sir,” with a teasing smile.

“That is quite unnecessary, Mr Childermass,” said Segundus. A smile pulled at his lips as he added, “I have found that when you mean disrespect you make it quite clear.”

“Aye,” said Childermass, with a short laugh which came out more of a snort. “I have been accused of that before.”

“I rather admire it,” said Segundus, clarifying, “Your forthrightness, I mean.”

Childermass looked at him over the rim of his tankard, and Segundus could not quite make out his expression. It made him itchy, being looked at in such a penetrating manner, so he wrapped his hands around the warmth of his own drink and looked down at it. He looked back up when Childermass took a breath as if to speak.

“I say, you there!”

The voice harked from across the room, and Childermass’ shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly and his mouth snapped shut, his lips pressing down on the last remains of his smile. The parlour was quiet enough that there was no doubt at whom this statement was aimed. Whatever was about to happen, Segundus saw that Childermass had experienced it before. A large gentleman with bristling grey whiskers and eyebrows strode over to their table.

“Can I help you, sir?” Segundus asked, and the gentleman seemed taken aback to see him. Childermass looked equally surprized at this interruption.

“Ah, good evening,” the gentleman said, swiftly regaining his footing. “I hoped you might spare your man for a few minutes – our coachman is struggling with my wife’s valise and there are no staff about. I do not know what kind of service this establishment promises to provide, but-”

“He is not my man, sir,” Segundus interrupted, as he could see the man’s rant going on some time. “He is my colleague, and quite his own man. You will have to ask him for aid yourself.”

He thought it was quite the stiffest manner he had ever used to address a stranger, and was inwardly rather pleased with himself. The man stopped himself short and looked between the two. His copious eyebrows seemed to roam his face like two caterpillars. He opened his mouth and closed it again several times.

“I am sure the staff have important business to attend to,” said Childermass to the gent, turning in his chair to regard him fully and flatly. “No doubt they will be with you shortly.”

Segundus dreaded what the man would say to be spoken to so curtly by a man of Childermass’ class, but luckily a woman came up and seized his arm to pull him away, saying “Joseph has managed it, my dear, with the help of some boy from the stables. Come now.”

The man managed a gruff, “Well, I never!” in Childermass’ direction before he was drawn out of the room.

Segundus watched them go, and took delight in Childermass’ slow, lopsided smile as he turned back to regard him.

“Colleague, eh?” Childermass leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the backrest.

“I hope you do not find me presumptuous, but I thought-”

“You best be careful, Mr Segundus, I may come to like that.”

Segundus had to take another drink in order to hide his smile and the flush creeping up his cheeks, and was relieved when the serving girl brought out their dinner. 

As they moved to retire, Childermass went to check on Davey and Lucas, and to discuss the plans for tomorrow. Segundus thus took advantage of the privacy of the room to ready himself for bed.

The room was large and dark, lit only by the flickering of the fireplace. Segundus took his candle and used it to light the others around the room, which only improved upon the gloom marginally. He freshened himself up with the hot water, glad to note that the innkeeper had sent up two bowls, so Childermass would have fresh water after he was done, changed into his nightshirt, and slipped into bed.

He found that he tired quickly on these long journeys, even though he felt that he should have grown accustomed to them in the early stages of Starecross, when he was up and down to Bath with regularity. He could not fathom how Davey dealt with it, nor Childermass.

With a sigh, he picked up his book and began to read. It was a volume he had read before, and one he set no real stock by but which had been mentioned in a letter from Mr Knight, and he was soon so involved in jotting argumentative notes in the margins with his pencil that he did not even notice Childermass entering the room. It was simply as if he was not there, and then he was. It was the splash of water in the basin that alerted Segundus to his presence. He glanced up to see that Childermass was stripped to the waist. He hurriedly looked back to his book.

“It’s a kindness you’re doing, here.” Childermass’ voice was a low rumble, and Segundus glanced up again. Childermass’ shoulders were slighter than he would have imagined, and a good deal paler than his face and hands.

“Do not think on it,” he replied, hoping his voice would not tremble. “I could never refuse comfort it was within my power to give.”

“Davey and Lucas are overjoyed.” Childermass laughed, and rolled his head around his neck to ease the cricks of the day. Segundus found that he could not quite look away from the harsh angles of him. “Well, they were while they were awake.” He pulled his nightshirt on over his breeches and shucked them off from under it. Segundus quickly looked back to his book.

“I am glad for it. I hate to think of them spending all day sitting out in the elements and then given only a straw pallet at night. I would hate to think of you there, too, when there is more than enough room here.”

“It is more thought than most men would give it,” Childermass said, and he slid beneath the covers. The bed was large – overlarge for the room, really – but Segundus felt the heat from him. “Now,” he began, and Segundus looked up to see a wicked smile directed at him, “I have not shared a bed with a gentleman in many years, so I cannot promise that I will be an agreeable bedfellow.”

“I only hope you will accept a similar apology from me,” Segundus said, feeling a little more at ease. “I have been known to leave books scattered among the sheets. Charles is never short of complaints come morning when he straightens it out.”

Childermass let out a short laugh and settled down on the pillow. “I will make sure you lie on a corner if I find one. Goodnight, Mr Segundus.”

Segundus placed his book on the table and snuffed out the candle. “Goodnight, Mr Childermass.”

*

In his dreams, Segundus found himself addressing a roomful of geese. These geese, he knew, were Members of Parliament, and he must make them understand the importance of magical education. The geese did not listen, but strutted around the grand room honking rather obnoxiously and chasing members of their rival party, attempting to bite them. Segundus himself had to step hurriedly away from a vicious beak more than once.

The dream ended with him chasing the goose he knew to be the Prime Minister, as he needed a very particular feather from his wing to make a pen in order to make the proper notes. He had just managed to seize the goose and pin its wings to its sides when it turned its head to look at him. It regarded him with a rather baleful expression, and neighed.

*

Segundus woke with that particular confusion which follows unusually vivid dreams. He heard the _neigh_ again, and realised he still held the goose. It took a moment for the waking world to reconcile with the aftereffects of his dream, and he realised that the sound of neighing was in fact coming from outside the window. It was a moment longer before he realised that the warmth in his arms was not, in fact, a goose, but an arm. He blinked his eyes open, bleary and confused, and saw Childermass looking down at him in some amusement.

In no time at all, he let go of his grip on Childermass’ arm and removed himself to the very edge of the bed.

“Oh, I am sorry, Mr Childermass! I thought you were the Prime Minister!”

The wry smile on Childermass’ face turned to outright amusement, and Segundus realised his error. His face flushed scarlet. Childermass said nothing, only looked at him, and Segundus could not be sure this was worse than whatever response he might make.

From outside came the sound of joyous birdsong, and the less joyous calls of men readying horses. A goose honked in the courtyard, and Segundus flinched.

“Well, sir,” Childermass said at length. “Now that I have been released,” he cocked an eyebrow as a smile crawled up one side of his face, “I will see to the preparations.”

Childermass washed and dressed quickly, and left the room. Segundus let out his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, covering his burning face with his hands. _It could_ , he tried to tell himself, _have been worse_.

They ate a quick breakfast and left before a half past six. If they made good time they would make it to London by evening, Childermass reckoned. They would certainly make Segundus’ appointment with Mr Knight tomorrow afternoon, and the Ministers the following day.

Davey and Lucas were chipper, and Segundus smiled to see them in high spirits.

“Aye, sir,” said Davey when Segundus commented upon it, “it’s a fine day and the wind is behind us. The horses are good tempered beasts.” He clapped one on the rump to emphasise his point and the beast’s skin shivered at the touch, shining in the sun like ripples on a chestnut sea. He wished Davey a good journey and climbed into the carriage.

Shortly after, Childermass joined him and the carriage lurched into motion, a cry from Davey setting the horses off.

“Let me hear it,” said Childermass, a full half hour into the journey. Segundus was startled from his contemplation of the changing landscape beyond the window.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your proposal for the Ministers. I know you’ve been working on it, and it’ll do you good to voice it now rather than waiting till we’re in front of them.”

Segundus looked back to the window as the morning’s embarrassment came back to him. There was, however, no denying that Childermass was correct. He turned back to Childermass with a sigh.

And so Segundus gave his prepared speech, pausing and stumbling over the words which had sounded so grand and convincing in his mind and finding them now flimsy and useless. He finished, and Childermass made him go through it again, and again, and again, until Segundus was near sick to death of it. Then Childermass gave him edits. He didn’t present them as such, but as _suggestions I might make_ , or _perhaps mention the to-do at Warwick_.

Segundus had thought himself a scholar, perhaps not first-rate, but used to setting down his arguments in papers and letters. It occurred to him that the life of an orator must be much different.

“Oh, I shall never make a politician!” He cried, throwing his hands in the air as he fumbled one of Childermass’ corrections. “It should be you giving this speech, Mr Childermass,” he said, thinking of the way he had taken control of the room in the Olde Starre Inn when he had presented Vinculus the previous week, of how he had wrapped the room in his rough voice and made even the most intractable of magicians listen.

“I am not to be the proprietor,” Childermass pointed out. “I do not know how you expect to be a schoolmaster if you cannot give a speech.”

“That is magic, sir!” Segundus sighed, let himself fall back against the seat. “I know magic – at least with Mr Knight and the young gentlemen I shall be able to discuss Sutton-Grove and Lanchester. I do not know politics, I do not know Ministers. I am not in the least qualified for this. You are used to dealing with these people, you know them. I have only ever heard of them in the newspapers and in letters from friends. Why should they listen to someone like me? I cannot even afford a new coat.” He scowled at the worn cuff of his sleeve, where it had been clipped back to hide the fraying. “You are undoubtedly the most talented magician in England!”

“They will listen to you because a gentleman, however poor, is still a gentleman,” Childermass said, no small amount of bitterness in his voice. “A servant will always be a servant, regardless of his talents or of how free he is in his own business. That is something that will not change in the minds of most men, not any time soon, but it is kind of you to believe otherwise.”

“Hogwash!” Segundus exclaimed. “You are the best man for this job and anyone who does not see that is a fool!”

“You, if you'll forgive me sir, have the bearing of a man of good education and breeding, whereas I have the bearing of a rogue and a scoundrel. It is immediately obvious. No, do not protest, sir, I only speak the truth.” Segundus shut his mouth around his objection. “I cannot do this for you, no more than I could do it for Mr Norrell, but I can guide you through it.”

“I do not wish to be another Norrell,” said Segundus, petulantly. _Not to the world nor to you_ , he thought. Childermass laughed.

“I do not believe you have it in you, sir.” Segundus was unsure of how to take this until Childermass rested his hand on top of Segundus’, a reassuring pressure through his glove. “And you are wrong, besides. Of course this is magic; all of it is magic.”

The carriage creaked to a stop, and they got out to stretch their legs while the horses were changed at Stamford. Childermass went to oversee the changeover, and Segundus took a turn around the town, never straying far from the inn.

It was a pleasant distraction, the air and the sunlight. He looked up and caught a group of starlings startled from their roost. They spelled something out on the sky, their shapes against the vivid blue an ever-changing sentence. Passing over the sun, they were rendered into something glorious, and he felt he understood.

 _All of it is magic_ , he thought. Then he wondered if what he had understood had actually been Childermass calling his name. He turned back to face the posting inn, but took a moment or two to return to himself.

“Mr Segundus!” He caught Childermass’ shout, saw him stalking towards him from the carriage, his greatcoat catching in the wind and billowing behind him, his hair blowing wildly around in the same breeze. The sun caught the edge of him, and he glowed with it like some kind of avenging angel. Segundus thought he might have seen himself watching the scene from the side or above, a sensation that left him lightheaded.

“I am coming!” He called, and was surprized by the weakness of his voice. As he hurried forward, he felt his mind catch up with his body in a sudden lurch that made him stumble. Childermass ushered him back into the carriage and it set off before he had the chance to sit down.

“What were you up to there, man? Watching the clouds?” He didn’t care for the note of irritation in Childermass’ voice.

“What was the meaning of that card?” He asked instead of answering, because in truth he was not sure what he had been doing. He felt he had accomplished _something_ from it, but was unsure what. “When you read my cards yesterday. _The Sun_ , was it?”

Childermass gave him a curious look, but said, “Your hopes will become reality, you will make a success of things.”

Segundus smiled, felt the burning of it in his cheeks and in his chest, and inclined his head towards Childermass in thanks. “I believe I shall. Now, what were the corrections you recommended?”


	3. april 1817

It was a great source of pride to John Segundus that he had been even tangentially involved in the advancement of magic from purely theoretical historical research to applied study, and for its continued journey on that path. It was not pride in himself, but pride in magic: it was now a discipline with a future, and Segundus was intent to see as much of that future as he could. He was not so old (although he was certainly not as young as he once was, he readily admitted to himself), and he had a great many years of work still in him.

He had seen other men and boys he had known take up seemingly God-given talents as either hobbies or careers: riding, shooting, art, the command of men. Segundus had taken naturally to books and to thinking as a child, and it was a love that had stayed with him.

Only in the last few weeks had he realised that another of his natural talents was magic. It was a raw and unfocused talent, yes, but when Childermass had talked to him about their shared sensitivity to magic, and the rarity of such an ability, his heart had soared with promise, almost as it had when he had managed to reattach Lady Pole’s finger.

So he sat down in his study and slowly expanded his talent at scholarship to include practice. It had taken him a while to harness the magic that now filled England to his own will (without the pressure of an enchanted lady before him and Childermass breathing down his neck) but he had managed it.

The first piece of magic he had done after that chaotic morning in February was to warm a bowl of water.

It had been around a week later, and he had slept in tremendously late. This had been happening a lot since Lady Pole had taken residence, and he supposed the constant exposure to such strong, malevolent magic had drained him somewhat. He had found he was waking a little earlier every day, having (much to his embarrassment) woken after noon the day following all the excitement.

On the morning in question, he had risen to find Charles had slipped into his room while he was asleep and left a basin and a jug of water for him. That had been hours ago, Segundus had supposed, as the water was ice cold when he woke. He had stared at the cold water, not relishing the idea of washing with it, and then thought he had nothing to lose by trying. He had read a little of it in a tattered excerpt of Pevensey that had turned up one morning by way of Mrs Lennox, and needed nothing more than a short incantation and a remnant of heat. He had taken up a piece of burnt coal, not yet turned to ash, from the cold fire and set it in the water. He pleaded with it to remember its warmth, to bring out the heat from its own memory and impart it to the water.

Once he had said his piece, he had opened his eyes and looked intently down at the bowl. Just as he had been about to give it up as a loss, the bowl had started to steam gently. He dipped his fingers into the bowl and found it just a little too hot to wash with, but that was no matter. He let out a cry of joy that was so uncharacteristic that Charles was in his room a moment later to make sure he was not injured.

It had been such a relief to Segundus that his magic had not been a singular phenomenon that he had spent the rest of the day taking his piece of coal from room to room and warming other things throughout the house, until Mrs White had shooed him from the kitchen while letting him know in no uncertain terms that she was perfectly capable of looking after her own ovens.

In the months that had passed, Segundus’ study had become a little more cluttered. There were basins and orbs and all sorts of contraptions not so easy to name resting on the sideboard and shelves and hanging from the walls. In short, his study had started to somewhat resemble a laboratory.

Above the fireplace, beside the mirror, he had hung the cross he had made from ribbon, spoon, and bodkin to restore Lady Pole. In moments of frustration and failure he found that looking at it helped to restore his faith in his own abilities, made his spine straighten where he sat.

One gloomy morning in April he was sitting at his desk frowning over his alterations to Strange’s location and surveillance spell. He had sent Davey out to wherever he pleased, as long as he did not tell Segundus where he planned to go, and was trying to locate him using magic. He recalled Strange’s complaints about not being able to find a person or a thing with the spell, only to narrow down, which involved having some clue as to where that person or thing was in the first place, or to have to guess from landmarks in basin-visions.

Segundus was not having much success, and was rather glad of the distraction of the approaching sound of hooves on the road. He was downstairs before the knock came at the door, and he opened it himself.

“Mr Childermass!” Segundus cried upon seeing the figure on the other side of the threshold. “What a pleasant surprize!”

He was indeed very pleased to see Childermass – if there was any man to help him in his current endeavour, then it was he. He smiled and ushered him into the Hall.

“Good morning, Mr Segundus. I met Davey at the Thorn Inn at Ripon,” said Childermass as he entered, removing his hat and gloves. “He said you had sent him away. I hope you have not quarrelled.”

“Oh!” Segundus cried. “I wish you had not told me that!” He sighed in exasperation and stalked back to his study. Childermass followed, pausing only to hand Charles his coat and hat.

“I’m not sure why you would have quarrelled with Davey,” Childermass continued, something approaching perplexion in his tone. “Neither of you have ever seemed much inclined to it.”

“We have not quarrelled,” sighed Segundus. “You have misunderstood him.” He shut the door behind Childermass and waved at the basin on his desk. “I was attempting a spell. I merely asked him to travel to somewhere beyond Starecross, near or far, without telling me where he was going so that I might try to locate him.”

Childermass’ eyes sparked in interest. “Are you using Ormskirk?”

“No, Pevensey,” Segundus sighed, dropping into his chair. “And some of Strange’s refinements, but nothing seems to be working. I cannot seem to get the spell to focus on the subject while also indicating the location.”

Childermass stood by Segundus’ side and leaned over to peer into the bowl. He muttered a few words and a vision of Davey laughing with some men in an inn floated just below the surface of the water.

“You see,” Segundus explained, standing beside Childermass and pointing at the image. “I can either bring up this image of him at the current moment, or I can quarter the basin to narrow down his location. I cannot, however, seem to combine the two spells, which would clearly be the most useful form of it. To be able to see the subject while also knowing precisely where he is.” He rubbed his face. “I was thinking of Mrs Strange, how they thought her lost in the hills, and all the poor souls who become lost each year we might be able to locate before it is too late, rather than spending hours narrowing down locations in the four-quarters.”

“I see the purpose, and the difficulty,” said Childermass, his face a frown of concentration. Standing so close, Segundus could smell Brewer on him: warm and a little sweet, with a tang of leather. “Have you an atlas?” asked he, cutting his eyes across to Segundus.

It was several hours before the two men emerged from the study, and only at the appearance of Charles to remind them of dinner. They had made some improvements to the spell and done some damage to the atlas, but Segundus felt more optimistic than he had that morning.

“I must apologise, Mr Childermass,” he said as they sat at the table. “I am sure you came on some other business, and here I am stealing away your day in pursuit of my own studies.”

“It is no worry of mine, Mr Segundus,” answered Childermass, giving him an amused look. “They are refinements I have been trying to make myself, when time allows.”

“What brings you to Starecross today?” He was glad that Childermass did not seem put out by only now being asked what Segundus should have enquired about upon his arrival.

“Oh, nothing more than a feeling.” Childermass’ eyes twinkled with a private joke as he took a drink of water, regarding Segundus over the rim. “It seems, sir,” he said at length, once Charles had set his meal in front of him, “that you keep turning up in my cards.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am in the habit of asking them for guidance when I feel at a crossroads, or a loose end.” This was not surprising to Segundus, but what Childermass said next was. “They keep directing me here. More specifically, they keep directing me to you.”

Segundus remembered Childermass’ lesson, his own life spread out on a carriage bench in ragged cardboard. He saw the Knight of Cups, and thought of it appearing time and again in Childermass’ hand. The thought of it brought colour to his cheeks, and he looked down at his plate.

“Some might call it rude to so consistently show up in a man’s fate,” Childermass said, his long uneven smile curling at his mouth, pulling Segundus from his thoughts. “But,” he continued with a shrug, “perhaps they brought me here in order for us to work on the spell. Perhaps we will make some kind of breakthrough with the King’s Letters. Perhaps I did not realise I would take such a notion for onion soup.” He gestured at the plate in front of him. “Whatever the reason, I am happy to let them direct me in this matter.”

Segundus doubted Childermass’ honesty in this; he knew how busy the man was, how many meetings he generally had with Societies and Ministers and Johannites alike, the amount of correspondence he had to keep up with (a deal of which now arrived for him at Starecross, as the place was coming to act as a base of sorts for him), but all Segundus found to say was, “Mrs White does make an excellent onion soup.”

Childermass smiled at this, and tilted his glass towards Segundus in a lazy toast to Mrs White’s soup.

After dinner Segundus brought Childermass to the library, where the fire had been lit and brandy put out. He was dwelling on the fate of the atlas, and would rather not confront its remains in his study so soon.

“I thought, while you are here, that I might elicit your opinion – I am afraid it is nowhere near as grand or well-stocked as Hurtfew’s, but I feel it is well along the way to being quite adequate for its purpose, given the… difficulties presented.” He quieted himself as he glanced around the room, suddenly remembering that he was speaking to the agent chiefly responsible for said difficulties.

Childermass merely raised an eyebrow and smiled a knowing smile, then took a turn about the room, his hands loosely clasped behind his back as he perused the titles, occasionally pulling a book from the shelf and flicking through it. Segundus stood watching him, following his progress around the room with agitation rising within him as Childermass’ silent inspection continued.

“A more varied selection than I expected,” Childermass eventually said, having taken the measure of the room and investigated to his satisfaction, “but an impressive collection so far, in spite of the _difficulties_.”

“Oh,” Segundus explained, brightening. “I hope that Starecross will not only be a place for the teaching of magic, but for all other subjects a student may need. During my last visit to London I was very grateful for having Mrs Lennox’s carriage, as I fear I brought away half of Mr Lackington’s stock.” His lips pressed together as he regarded Childermass’ profile, impassively considering Pointer’s _A Rational Account of the Weather_. “Mr Norrell would undoubtedly look badly on me for frequenting such an establishment, I suppose?”

Childermass only smiled curiously at him and returned the book to its place before taking a seat in one of the armchairs before the fire. “It never seemed necessary for Mr Norrell to hear all the detail of the origins of some of his books. As long as he obtained the volumes he required, he did not care about the particular methods that brought them to him.”

This statement should not have stirred Segundus’ imagination as it did, but combined with Childermass’ dark and looming appearance, and the unseasonable murk of the evening, he could not help but envisage some dramatic highway pursuit. He sternly reminded himself that the _particular methods_ he had heard of from Strange’s pupils had mainly involved cheque books and outbidding, and very little use of pistols or galloping horses. He had got himself so caught up in this image that he missed Childermass’ next words.

“Pardon?”

“I said, sir, you have enough Sutton-Groves to be getting on with.”

“Oh, yes!” Segundus exclaimed, glad for the diversion. “I had my own copy – it seems there were a number of them available, reprinted as Lord Portishead so well put forward Mr Norrell’s opinions of its value. I had a most lively discussion of it with Mr Knight and Mr Fothergill in London.”

“And what is your opinion of it, Mr Segundus?”

“It is… a useful text for certain occasions. I can understand why Mr Norrell was such an admirer of it, and why Mr Strange found it frustrating.” He poured them each a glass of brandy, passing one to Childermass.

“A diplomatic answer.” Childermass was smiling at him again, a glimmer of humour in his eye. “But not truly an answer. Come, sir, you are not generally in the habit of being guarded about your own opinions, it would be a shame to start now.”

Segundus laughed a little at being caught out. “He tabulates English magic in a useful way for my current purposes, I shall not argue with him on that account, but I feel that if his had been the first account of English magic I had ever found, then I would not be sitting here speaking with you this evening. How does that suit as an answer, sir?” He saw the glint of teeth in Childermass’ smile, heard the scrape of a chuckle in his throat. “And what is your opinion, Mr Childermass?” The chuckle grew to a true, if short, laugh.

“I sometimes have difficulty sleeping,” Childermass said at length. “I usually find that half an hour with Sutton-Grove is more effective than a half pint of brandy.”

The laugh leapt from Segundus’ mouth before he even thought it, although the ones that followed it into the firelight were not so much of a surprize. They spent a pleasant hour discussing various recent publications which were rather more engaging than Sutton-Grove, and the conversation turned to Mr Knight and his school in Covent-garden.

“He intends to teach purely theoretical magic,” Segundus explained. “Although Mr Fothergill wishes to teach a little practical magic in Canterbury. We have decided to meet together twice a year.”

“It will be good for English magic to have such schools,” Childermass said, sipping his brandy. “And even better for there to be communications and agreements between the masters.”

“I did not have the opportunity to say as much in London,” Segundus said, “and did not know where a letter might reach you, but I wish to thank you for your help, Mr Childermass: for your introductions, for your directions and letters. They have been indispensable in setting up such communications.”

Childermass gave a huff. “No need, Mr Segundus.”

“You needn’t do all of this for me,” said Segundus, swirling the brandy in his glass. “I know how busy you are.”

“I am not doing it for you, Mr Segundus,” answered Childermass, a peculiar glint in his eye which, in flicker of the firelight, made him look more like one of Mrs Radcliffe’s characters than usual. Segundus was once more caught up in the images of Childermass’ _particular methods_ his mind had provided earlier, but he schooled himself sternly away from those. “I am doing it for English magic, for the cause we both champion. Making the introductions was selfish on my part: it gives me one less thing to worry on, knowing you have it in hand.”

“Of course, it just seemed, when you arrived at Fife House…” Segundus was unsure how to finish without giving further offence, so he allowed himself to trail off and take another drink. His head was beginning to feel pleasantly light, but whether that was due to the brandy or to the curious effect of knowing he had Childermass’ trust he was unsure. He noticed that, when the fire flared at its brightest, it illuminated a similar shade in Childermass’ eyes as in the brandy.

“I happened to be passing, so thought I would call in the chance it was still going. I have known those gentlemen to argue about things a great deal less important for a great while longer.”

He looked as though he would say more, but instead gave a shrug and took a sip of his own drink. It was a few minutes before he spoke again.

“You said, sir,” Childermass’ voice was slow, careful, “that you considered us colleagues. I would hope that holds true.”

Segundus looked up. Childermass’ face was half hidden in shadow and behind hair, but his dark eyes glittered in the light from the fire. There was an unfamiliar vulnerability about him in that moment, a twist to his mouth that indicated that Segundus’ answer would mean more than he wished it would. It reminded him in some obscure way of how Childermass had been on the afternoon of the fifteenth of February, touching the silvery scar on his cheek which should by all means have still been bleeding.

Segundus weighed his answer and settled on the truth, unornamented: “Nothing would please me more.” The twist of Childermass’ mouth resolved into his usual sideways smile. He raised his glass.

“To unlikely partnerships,” said he, and Segundus laughed to tilt their drinks together.

“I would not have thought it when you first shewed up on the steps of Starecross,” said Segundus, feeling warm and merry and content, “but there is no man I would trust more in this venture.”

“Not even Mr Honeyfoot?” The teasing in Childermass’ tone was obvious, but Segundus found he could not be too irritated.

“Now, Mr Honeyfoot is a dear friend, my dearest in fact, but you know this business, sir. You have been all your life in it. Magic for him cannot be his chief concern – a very serious and pleasant one, yes – but he has his family to think of. For you and me magic is as I said at the Minster: it is our lives.”

“Just so, Mr Segundus.” Childermass nodded and finished his brandy. “The hour is late,” he said, putting his glass down and bringing his hands to the arms of his chair, ready to push himself to his feet. “I had best leave you some peace, the Hart is not far.”

It took Segundus a moment to realise what he meant: the White Hart Inn, some five miles south of Starecross.

“That will not do, Mr Childermass!” He exclaimed as Childermass stood. The man merely looked down at him curiously. Segundus waved towards the empty chair. “Your room has been readied for you – I could not abide the thought of you staying elsewhere, and certainly not leaving at this hour.”

Childermass regarded him carefully before slowly lowering himself back into the armchair.

“I have told you, Mr Childermass, you are always welcome at Starecross.” Segundus leaned forwards in his chair. “I have only tonight said how much you do for us here – the room will be kept as yours for as long as you have need of it. I had thought that I had… I do apologise if I did not make myself clear before.”

There was something odd in Childermass’ face, something difficult to read in the twist of his mouth and the crease of his brow.

“Of course,” Segundus continued, blushing as he realised that perhaps Childermass would prefer to spend his time elsewhere, “if you would rather stay at the Hart then do not let me pressure you, but your company is greatly appreciated here – by me, and the staff are always so happy to see you – so you need not spend money unnecessarily unless you prefer. My hospitality will take no offense.” He knew himself how it felt to think yourself living on someone else’s charity, how uncomfortable it could become. He did not wish that for Childermass.

“Thank you, Mr Segundus.” Childermass’ voice was low and rough. If Segundus had been harbouring any secret hope that Childermass _would_ in fact spend the night at the Hart, he was sure Childermass’ penetrating gaze would have seen through him. “It is kind of you. I was not overly impressed with the Hart last I stayed.”

Segundus smiled, relieved, and sat back. “As you are not riding away from us, can I offer you another brandy?”

Childermass gave a low rumble of laughter and offered his glass forward. “Thank you, sir. I shall certainly sleep better here.” Glass refilled, he sat back in his chair with more ease, his legs stretching out before him to the fire. “Although I will have to visit in the morning to retrieve Vinculus. He will be comfortable there for the night, although I doubt how well the other patrons will sleep.”


	4. may 1817

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a quick content warning here for grief, but no "on-screen" death.

One peculiarity – it might have been called an eccentricity had he had any control over it – of John Segundus was that he often had strangely lingering dreams. Whether this was due to him being a magician, or merely due to him being John Segundus, he was unsure. Although it would be a fascinating topic for study (there were, after all, several stories and sayings about the dreams of magicians), it felt such a personal subject that he was reluctant to ask around his colleagues in the York Society to ascertain their own experiences.

The precise content of these dreams – while vivid in the dream itself – was not always clear to him upon waking, but he would spend the rest of the day caught in whatever mood the dream had held, an aftertaste of emotion lingering at the back of his tongue. The dreams were occasionally happy and left him in buoyant spirits for the rest of the day; sometimes nightmares left their claws hooked in his skin and kept his nerves on edge in the waking world. Rarely (but often memorably) they would be the kind of dream from which he awoke flushed and breathless, and would leave a trace of themselves as a strange kind of restless energy in his blood.

Last night, the dream had not been a happy one. Occasionally he was left with faint images or sounds in his memory, but not this morning. All that remained of his dream was a discomfort – his clothes ill-fitting, his neckcloth too tight – and a feeling of gloom which was completely at odds with the bright spring sunshine spilling in through the windows. He had not slept well, waking several times throughout the night, slipping always back into the same dream until he jolted awake once more.

It was in this attitude – unjustifiably morose and rubbing at his tired eyes – that he made his way down to breakfast. The sight that met him was more cheering, although that little cheer was quickly overpowered by embarrassment at having been beaten to breakfast by a guest. Then again, he thought to himself, “ _guest”_ no longer seemed quite the correct word for the man sat before him, reading a newspaper and eating buttered toast.

“Good morning, Mr Childermass!” Exclaimed Segundus, an attempt to present himself as better company than he felt. “I am sorry to keep you waiting – I did not mean to sleep so late.”

“Good morning, sir,” Childermass replied, looking up from his newspaper. “No need to apologise, a man may rise whenever he likes in his own home. I have been here only a few minutes myself. It was a late return for us all last night.”

“Yes,” Segundus sighed, “I cannot complain at the popularity of the Society when it stimulates such interesting conversation, but when all rooms are booked by visitors it is rather inconvenient.” His neck still ached from the odd angle at which he had dozed in the coach back to Starecross, and he stretched it now without much relief.

After a cup of tea and some bread and cold meat, however, Segundus felt a bit more like himself. His dreams had faded and had left him with only some fleeting images he could not quite grasp hold of when he tried, and a general feeling of unease.

Shaking his head a little to clear it of such fancies, Segundus fell into conversation with Childermass, and soon found his indistinct worries blown away. Vinculus had apparently already breakfasted and was out in the spring sunshine, having previously found a sheltered spot in the garden that long kept the sun. Childermass read aloud some choice articles from his newspaper, laughing at some of the more ludicrous stories (a gentleman in London who had managed to transform an ornament of his wife’s into a living version of itself and had then had to involve the entire household in apprehending the incredibly angry and vicious goose), and frowning at some others and taking up his memorandum book to write in.

“It seems I must leave you today, sir,” Childermass said, scowling at the paper. “I had best see to this attempted summoning of the Raven King in Sheffield on Thursday.”

 _Ah_ , thought Segundus, _there is the bad news_.

He was surprized at his own disappointment at Childermass’ words, but was glad that his ominous (if vague) presentiments had not come to anything worse. Childermass had only been at Starecross three nights, but Segundus had grown quite used to his company. On waking he looked forward to these conversations at breakfast, to their discussions about the school and possible curriculums, to their work on Vinculus, to their experiments with various spells.

“Oh dear,” he said, pouring another cup of tea to hide his disappointment. “That certainly seems ill-advised.”

“I do not think they can have been advised at all; they have no idea of the difficulties involved in such a task – there is only one summoning spell which has worked in the last three hundred years, and that is lost with Norrell and Strange. Even if they have managed to pull together an efficient spell, there is the particular impossibility of Uskglass’ _name_ …”

Childermass went on in this way for some time, and it led to such a stimulating discussion that Segundus soon forgot all about his displeasure at the news, and only looked forward to Childermass’ return so that he might hear the rest of the tale.

“I will leave Vinculus with you, sir, if you do not mind. I know you were enjoying working on the Letters, and I will travel quickest alone to return in time for the meeting with the young gentlemen.” He gave a wry smile. “If I travel with Vinculus we are obliged to stop at every inn and Society we pass, which does slow down progress, and although I am sure he would be of interest, he is unnecessary for the business.”

“Oh, of course!” Segundus cried, simultaneously cheered and worried by the news. “I shall warn Mrs White, and invite Mr Honeyfoot, and perhaps Miss Redruth (with her father, of course). She seldom gets the opportunity to investigate Vinculus at close quarters.”

Childermass met his eyes briefly and gave a huffed laugh, and Segundus knew that that he had heard his true meaning: _It is unusual that Miss Redruth has the opportunity to investigate Vinculus in peace without the scandalised mutters and whispers of Dr Foxcastle and his cronies bearing down upon her_. His mood lifted a little at such a smile, such conspiratorial look.

At that moment, Charles entered and handed a letter to Childermass, giving a quiet apology for interrupting. Childermass gave the young man an amused look as he took the envelope, frowned at the writing on the front, and opened it roughly. Before starting to read, he passed his newspaper to Segundus.

“Apologies, sir. Do take this to amuse yourself while you finish breakfast. I must see to this.” He nodded sternly at Segundus, and turned back to scowling at his letter.

Segundus poured himself another cup of tea and set to reading the paper. He did not often look into a newspaper – they seldom made their way to Starecross until several weeks after the events related had transpired, unless he happened to have a visitor such as Mr Childermass or Mr Honeyfoot, and it was very seldom indeed that he got his hands on a London paper like this one. Lately he had begun to notice that on the occasions a paper did make its way to Starecross, he had already heard the pertinent information in letters from Childermass or Mrs Lennox, usually with more detail and less speculation, and written with a drier sense of humour. He settled into this – not even a week old! – with interest.

It was not until Childermass stood with an exclamation of surprize that Segundus realised he had dropped his teacup. Indeed, it took a little more than a minute for Childermass’ actions to filter through the sudden noise in his head and for the world to widen further than a single paragraph in the newspaper.

“Sir, are you alright?” Childermass was asking, at his side. He crouched, and the movement was enough to tear Segundus’ eyes from the paper.

“I am… I must…” He could not find his words, nor his voice. He raised himself to his feet slowly, worried that his knees would not bear his weight, and realised that his hands were shaking. “I am sorry, Mr Childermass,” he said in a rush and left the room, only distantly aware of the crunch of china beneath his shoe. His head was aching and the pressure behind his eyes was burning; he did not want Childermass to see him with tears in his eyes, did not want him to know how distressed he was. He most certainly did not want him to know what had caused it.

When he reached his study he shut the door behind him and collapsed into his chair. He had left the newspaper in the morning room, but the paragraph was imprinted on the back of his eyes.

He had always thought it barbaric and indefensible, that intrusion of the law into the private affairs of men, but at that very moment he could have screamed at the injustice of it. He was hollow and choking, as if someone had scraped out his guts and packed them all back into his throat. He shut his eyes tightly but still the tears spilled hot over his cheeks.

He could not believe it. He saw the words floating on his eyelids, the name and the damning accusations and their consequences. _William Morpeth, 42… late a barrister… unnatural crime… executed yesterday_. He stifled a sob with his hand. His mind filled with a vision of a shining, golden boy laughing against the warm stone of an Oxford summer, of an elegant man smiling broadly over a glass of port. He thought of the letters they had exchanged (almost daily, at first, but reduced to one or two a year as time and life distanced them from each other, from the youth they had shared), of the blooming of his heart at his every recognition of the hand upon the envelope.

Segundus’ heart now felt as brittle as the cup he had broken that morning, and that the slightest bump would shatter it entirely.

He couldn’t understand it. Even with the audacity of youth, William had been careful in his partners and his desires. For him to be caught out so many years past those rash days made little sense to Segundus. He had last met with him a little under five years ago, but now his fractured heart ached with regret that they had not met more recently, that time had borne them so far from each other. To speak unguardedly – truly unguardedly – with a friend, to hear his hopes and his fears… The ache in his chest boiled over; he gasped for air.

A knock came at the door, startling him from his reverie, and he hastily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his eyes and face.

“Come in,” he said, all too aware of the painful crack of his voice. The door opened slowly and closed again quietly, and Childermass was in the room. He took the seat across the desk from Segundus and regarded him carefully.

“I wanted to check on you, sir. You seemed upset, and have been gone over half an hour.” Childermass’ tone was that of one trying to soothe a startled horse, and his wary gaze never lifted from Segundus’ countenance. Segundus felt the weight of it bearing down on his fracture lines, and kept his own eyes on the worn corner of his desk. He might have been irritated by the tone had he not been expending all his energy in keeping himself from shaking apart.

“It is just that… I have read some distressing news.” Segundus did not quite make it to the end of the sentence, his voice breaking and fresh tears spilling from his eyes. He cursed his own fragility, cursed Childermass’ dark eyes upon him, as he brought the handkerchief once more to his eyes.

“A friend?” Childermass asked, careful. Segundus realised his own stupidity in leaving the paper on the table, flinched at Childermass’ words and the implication.

Childermass was a clever man – cleverer than any Segundus knew – and would of course have looked at the page it had been left open at when Segundus had fled so suddenly. William’s had been the only named execution listed on the page among a swathe of pillories and transportations, and it would not have taken much for Childermass to attribute Segundus’ distress to the death, and from there speculate on Segundus himself.

He wanted very much to deny it, but his nerves were so wrung out that he merely nodded, turning his face away. Childermass said nothing, but let out a great heavy breath. When Segundus looked up he saw the thin line of his mouth and the frown on his brow. Segundus closed his eyes so he would not have to see his disapproval.

“I am sorry, sir.” Childermass’ voice was low when he finally spoke. “It is a horrible thing, to find out the fate of a friend through such a means.”

Segundus looked up at him in surprize. His mouth was twisted in a sad sort of smile, wryness clinging to it seemingly more out of habit than any intention. There was nothing of the empty condolence in Childermass’ manner; his dark eyes were heavy with understanding when Segundus managed to meet them for the slightest moment. Under the weight of his grief as he was, the sight of that understanding – if understanding it was, if Segundus’ disordered mind had not planted something he merely wished to see – did something to ease the burden.

“In truth, I had not seen him in many years,” Segundus said, and found himself able to breathe a little more easily. Childermass slid a glass of water over to him, which Segundus had not noticed him bring in. He drank from it gratefully, although it passed painfully around the lump in his throat. “But we were great friends at Oxford.”

“Friendships formed in youth are of a different sort to those we begin in adulthood,” Childermass said. “However cropped the growth might be, the roots run deep.” His tone did not hint at any disgust or suspicion, so Segundus chanced to look at him.

“I suppose I do not understand it.” Segundus sighed and looked at his fingers as they wrapped around the glass.

“There are many who do not.” Childermass’ words, the sudden sharpening of his tone, had the immediate effect of seizing Segundus’ joints and stiffening his back. His teeth came together in a clench that made his jaw ache. He had clutched at the very barest sign of comfort, he cursed himself, had let himself think in a vulnerable moment that… “Why the law should interfere in private matters in such a way I have never understood, and certainly not with such mortal consequences.”

Segundus was so relieved by this sentiment that he laughed. It was a laugh that caught on something hot and sharp in his chest and turned to a sob by the time it left his mouth, bringing with it a fresh wave of tears. He brought his handkerchief to his mouth to stifle the sound and closed his eyes. The scrape of a chair on the floorboards alerted him to Childermass standing, and a warm hand landed gentle on his shoulder a moment later.

“I will ring for some tea in the morning room and bring it to you, that no one else will see you so,” said Childermass. “Then you may let me know whether you would like my company, or if you prefer to be alone in your grief.”

“Thank you, Mr Childermass,” Segundus said, his voice wavering only a little. “Thank you.” He didn’t dare open his eyes, but he brought his hand up to squeeze briefly at Childermass’ on his shoulder. The contact was withdrawn slowly, and the door closed softly behind him.

Segundus doubled over in his chair and pressed his hands to his face.

By the time the door opened softly again, he had worn himself out. His ribs ached and his eyes stung, his head stuffed full of down. He felt as if he had been stripped of his skin, shivering with all nerves exposed. He pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure in them, before looking to Childermass.

“Thank you,” he said, voice thick as he swallowed around the jagged thing lodged in his throat. “You have been too kind.”

Childermass made a non-committal noise in his throat and continued to pour the tea. He handed Segundus the cup with a gruff, “Get that down you,” and sat on the other side of the desk.

The warmth of the cup in his hands was almost as soothing as the drinking of it, and he sat for some time in silence, his fingers wrapped around the heat. He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. As he let it out, he felt some of the tension leave him. Childermass did not speak, but Segundus could feel his quietly assessing eyes on him.

“It is the strangest thing,” he said once he had taken a sip of the surprisingly sweet tea, once his throat felt like less of an obstacle. “I cannot decide… I have no idea whether I should write to his wife.” He laughed a little, feeling it bubbling in his chest a little hysterically. “I feel I should, but it also seems… rather inappropriate given the… the nature of things.” His eyes started leaking again, and he pressed his by now rather sodden handkerchief to them.

“Did she know?” Childermass asked, offering him a clean handkerchief. “About his inclinations?” He said it in such a simple way that Segundus could almost believe that they were talking about something else entirely, like William’s taste in curtains. Despite the exhaustion and numbness in his nerves, and the wooliness of his mind, his gut tightened at this being spoken aloud.

Spoken aloud, and by John Childermass.

Had this happened six months ago Segundus would have been in fear of his livelihood, of the value of the knowledge he had inadvertently given this man who had more than once been the architect of Segundus’ disappointments. Yet… the sick feeling in his stomach passed (or, at least, lessened) as he regarded Childermass: leaning over the desk from his chair with a clean handkerchief proffered between two fingers, his brows drawn together in solemnity and his eyes full of some expression that Segundus could not bring himself to define.

“I do not know.” Segundus shrugged and gratefully accepted the handkerchief. “I met her only once, at the wedding. He never mentioned it in his letters, but I would not have expected him to. We did not mention such things in letters.” _I would not have wanted you to intercept them_ , he thought, and when he managed to glance at Childermass he saw that same reflection he had noticed that morning, this time without the smile, but Segundus knew he had understood.

They sat in silence a little longer, the mantle clock marking off the seconds and the minutes like a heartbeat. Childermass poured him some more tea, sat back to regard him with heavy eyes. Segundus felt he couldn’t bear a moment more of the scrutiny, but another part of him was glad of the steady, quiet company and found the weight of his gaze almost reassuring. In that gaze was not the accusation Segundus had imagined, not the calculating stare he had steeled himself for, but something almost like recognition. It was an expression that should have shaken Segundus, should have put him on guard, but he felt some mirror of it in himself.

“I am sorry, Mr Childermass,” he said after some minutes, finally looking up to meet Childermass’ eye. “You were making your preparations to leave, and instead here you are pouring a silly little man some tea.”

“Don’t,” Childermass said, voice suddenly firm and eyes fierce. “You’ve every right to grieve for a friend, Mr Segundus. I’m only sorry I didn’t know him, that I could give a little more comfort.”

Segundus opened his mouth to say that he was already a great comfort, but the words stuck to the roof of his mouth and he only said, “Thank you.”

“Besides,” Childermass said with a shrug, “the Sheffield business is not urgent – they will fail, and will only miss a lecture which they can easily hear another time. I will stay, and we will work on the Letters. Vinculus will not complain.”

This made Segundus laugh; a sad, wet sound that took a little of the ache with it.

Segundus looked at him once more, managed some moments’ looking together, and found that even that clinging residue of wryness had disappeared from Childermass’ countenance. He now looked solemn and fierce, and Segundus was more glad than he could have ever predicted to have him there.

“Thank you, Mr Childermass,” he said, his voice feeling stronger. He swallowed, and felt the sharp edges in his throat somewhat softened. “I will invite Miss Redruth, I am sure she will be glad of the opportunity.”

He reached for some paper and a pen, and Childermass got to his feet. He said nothing, just pulled his solemn expression into a solemn smile and left the room, but not without dropping his hand once more to Segundus’ shoulder; a firm, fleeting reassurance.


	5. june 1817

It was only with momentary alarm that Segundus found Childermass at the breakfast table, sitting quite comfortably with a cup of tea and a letter. Noticing his arrival, Childermass looked up and quirked an eyebrow at him, giving a slow, amused nod. Segundus’ surprize had, it seemed, been noted.

A number of questions flitted through Segundus’ mind in the following moments: mostly _why_ s and _how_ s and _when_ s, along with a _we weren’t expecting you for another fortnight_ which, although not technically a question, summarised the rest of the possibilities quite neatly. As Segundus scrabbled around for a way in which to phrase any of these questions without sounding accusatory and unwelcoming, Childermass took pity on him.

“I arrived in the small hours,” he explained, and now that Segundus looked at him, he saw the shadows beneath his eyes, darker than usual. He could only have slept a few hours. “I did not wish to disturb anyone.”

“You must have crept in quiet as a mouse,” Segundus replied, shaking himself of the shock enough to sit down and put his breakfast together. “It is quite a relief that you are not a villain, after all.”

Childermass said nothing to that, just huffed a quiet breath of laughter and looked at Segundus with a self-satisfied expression, as if he were pleased to have been found out.

“You found your correspondence?” Segundus asked as a diversion, nodding to the pile of letters stacked by Childermass’ elbow.

“I did.” He was quiet a moment. “The desk is very useful, thank you.”

“Oh,” said Segundus. It had been delivered and placed in Childermass’ room weeks ago, and Segundus had become so used to seeing it there when sorting the letters that arrived at Starecross for Childermass that he had forgotten its relative novelty. “I am glad. Mr Honeyfoot spotted it in a shop in York and thought it would be an excellent fit for your room.” Segundus smiled a little. It had made his task of sorting Childermass’ letters much easier than trying to balance them on the chair or the bedside table, and he said as much. Childermass gave him a curious smile and, in unspoken accord, turned back to his letter as Segundus started on his breakfast.

Segundus watched as Childermass read: one hand holding the letter, the other his cup. It seemed such a natural sight that Segundus was taken aback by it. For a moment he pondered how he would have received this news, had he the ability to speak to himself a year ago: John Childermass sitting at his ease in the morning room, and John Segundus pleased to see him there. He would have surely laughed in his own face, or asked himself if he was feeling quite alright.

“I have a visit to pay today,” Childermass said, putting the letter down and picking up a crumpet as he spoke. He looked up at Segundus with a question in his dark eyes. “I would like you to accompany me, if you have no other business.” He took a bite of the crumpet, keeping his eyes on Segundus all the while.

“There is nothing pressing,” answered Segundus after a moment, and it was not precisely a lie. Although there were a number of things that needed his attention – orders and repairs and plans – he was sure they could wait an afternoon. “And it is a fine day, I would be glad for the diversion.”

“Good,” said Childermass, and poured himself some more tea.

The day was looking bright and warm and, if he was honest with himself, Segundus did not relish the thought of a day riding to goodness-knows-where on a mysterious visit, but Childermass’ manner had been so open that he could not refuse. He was all too aware of the business that Childermass had given up on his account weeks before, and knew that to accept such a request as this was really the very least he could do to make up for it. That situation had not been mentioned again, which Segundus was glad for. Still, he felt some guilt over the missed trip to Sheffield, although they had spent some productive days studying the Letters. He was happy now to go some way towards repaying a kindness.

Childermass did not provide any further details about the visit, and Segundus did not ask. They readied the horses soon after breakfast, Mrs White having provided them with a parcel of food for their lunch: some meat pies, some apples, a whole fruit cake.

They set out west, crossing the moor at first but soon dipping to the lowland. As they rode they talked, and as might be expected the talk was mainly of magic. Childermass had recently returned from shewing off Vinculus to various Societies of Magicians, and had mentioned in a letter a very individual phrase on Vinculus’ left ankle that had been pointed out by a lady magician in Hereford. They had not yet been able to discuss the various arguments this had provoked, and their letters – although thought-provoking and frequent – were not quite the same as discussing the matter face-to-face. Segundus was glad now for the opportunity, and although he felt a small itch of guilt for abandoning his preparations for a day, he was happy to be out in the open air and to be having such an interesting conversation, even if it did have the drawback of happening on horseback.

On such a fine day there were a number of other people on the road, many _Good morning_ s to be said and travelling salesmen to be gently refused. Segundus was comforted on this front at the knowledge that they would call at Starecross within the week and he would purchase what he needed then, so he was little troubled by refusing them – although one man did manage to coax him to pause with the offer of a great quantity of scarlet ribbon for a very good price, but Segundus stopped himself and gave the trader directions to Starecross, and told him to call when he happened to be passing, as there he would be assured a purchase.

During this exchange, Childermass had not stopped but had continued on at Brewer’s leisurely pace. It was a matter of moments to catch him up, but Segundus found himself in no hurry to do so. He let himself hang back, taking a moment to consider man and horse: they were neither of them handsome beasts, but both were practical and unfanciful, which were both qualities Segundus rather admired, leaning somewhat to the fanciful himself. They had similar dispositions, he supposed: a preference for straight talking over dancing around a subject, an instinct for men’s characters that seldom proved false. Brewer’s judgements, Childermass had told him some weeks ago as the horse had been busily snuffling at Segundus’ pockets in search of an apple, had never yet let him down.

Childermass had an odd way of riding, so relaxed as to almost be sliding off his mount’s back but still seeming perfectly balanced. It looked, to Segundus, much like the habit he had of propping himself against the nearest wall or piece of furniture. It was not a tidy habit, but Segundus (to his own surprize) more and more found the carelessness of it charming. He had known several young men in his youth who had taken up the habit in an effort to appear insouciant, but had always had around them an air of affectation; none of them had worn it so well or so naturally as Childermass. The man in question turned in his saddle to fix an amused look on Segundus, as if he had felt his stare. Segundus felt the colour rising to his cheeks, and nudged his mount to catch up so he might continue their conversation.

After two or three hours of gentle, easy riding, Childermass took them from the main road down a narrow lane overarched with trees, their leaves seeming to glow in the sunshine to illuminate the path below with an intense verdancy. When they left the shade of the trees the sun was bright and warm, and Segundus spotted a small house some way ahead.

The house was little more than a two-room cottage at the foot of the moors, close to the church of St Lawrence. Segundus could hear the wind in the trees behind them, and just below it the tolling of the church bells sounding midday. He followed Childermass, the hooves of their horses clopping, unhurried, against the path.

As they approached the house, a woman appeared from behind a wall. Segundus noticed her posture stiffen instinctively at the sight of two men on horseback, but after a moment she relaxed and hurried forward to meet them.

“John!” She called, laughing, as she came towards them.

Childermass fairly leapt from Brewer’s back, prompting the horse to give a gentle snort of complaint, and crossed the distance to the woman in a few long strides. He laughed, an open, honest sound Segundus had never heard from him, and swept her into his arms.

For a moment, Segundus’ vision was entirely taken up with the embrace.

He found himself in the uncomfortable position of discovering that his heart had been busy in quiet, hopeful daydreams without stopping to consult his mind on the matter, and that he was only now being made aware of its longings. He had, he realised, been hoping that…

That what? That Childermass’ visits to Starecross were for more than just business? He had been a fool to consider it. He had imagined the look he had seen in Childermass’ eye that grief-stricken morning, that look he had thought hinted at something beyond the compassion of a friend to something truly understanding.

His mind snapped back into focus when Childermass let the woman go, stepping to her side but keeping an arm around her shoulders, and waved Segundus over. He dismounted from his horse with as much composure as he was able and walked forward. He offered the woman a bow and a smile, and hoped that neither came across as too forced.

“… my colleague, Mr Segundus,” Childermass was saying. “I find he is tolerable good company, for a gentleman.” Segundus straightened and saw the twinkle of amusement in Childermass’ eye directed at him. “Mr Segundus, this is my sister, Mrs Mary Sorsby.”

This information took a moment to filter through Segundus’ already dazed senses, so he had to ask, “Your sister?” to make sure he had not misheard.

“Aye, my sister.” Childermass was nigh-on laughing at him with his eyes. The laughter in his face became a teasing note in his voice as he said, “You did not think I had a wife hidden away in the country, did you, Mr Segundus?”

Feeling rather foolish, Segundus shot as dirty a look as he could muster at Childermass before turning to Mrs Sorsby. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.” He bowed once more, and when he straightened he saw a warm smile upon her face.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Mr Segundus.” She had her brother’s same rough Yorkshire accent, bred from the stones of the country itself, the same keen edge to her gaze. “I’ve been hearing about you for some time.”

“Indeed?” He asked, turning to Childermass and raising an eyebrow at him inquisitively.

“Aye,” Mrs Sorsby answered. “From John here, as well as from others. You kept t’madhouse at Starecross, did you not? Where that poor enchanted lady was kept?”

“I did,” said Segundus. “I am surprized news of it reached here.”

“Oh, news spreads quick around these parts,” she said, and it was strange to see such a familiar long smile on a different face. “Particularly if there’s magic involved.”

Further discussion of the topic was avoided at the approach of a small roaring creature which appeared from over the rise, barrelling straight for Childermass and scattering the grumbling chickens. Segundus was glad for the distraction, for the shifting of Mrs Sorsby’s penetrating gaze away from him.

“Uncle John!” The creature cried, and was swept up into Childermass’ arms and settled on his hip with ease. “Where have you been?”

“All over, lad,” laughed Childermass, and knocked the boy’s cap down over his eyes. He dropped the child to the ground and spun him to face Segundus, a hand on each shoulder as the boy straightened his cap. “Mr Segundus: my nephew, Ned.”

The boy peered seriously up at Segundus with a sharpness he recognised, and stuck his hand out. He could not have been more than twelve years old. Segundus reached forward and shook his hand firmly.

“Welcome, Mr Segundus,” the child said solemnly.

“Thank you, Master Sorsby,” Segundus replied, and then straightened when the ceremony was done. It was not a ceremony carried through mockingly – despite the boy’s childish greeting of his uncle, Segundus could see the flint in him. The protective edge to the set of his mouth as he regarded this stranger made Segundus wonder what his reception would have been if he had come without the invitation of his uncle. He caught Childermass’ eye, thought he caught a spark of approval there.

“Come in,” Mrs Sorsby ushered them. “You’ve been riding long enough, you must be parched.”

Childermass directed Ned to hobble the horses and let them at the grass, while Mrs Sorsby ushered Segundus inside. The dark interior of the cottage was blessedly cool after the heat of their journey, and Segundus was glad to follow Mrs Sorsby’s direction to a seat. She poured each of them a mug of small beer from a brown jug, and refilled them a moment later when both men had drained their cups, glad to quench dry throats.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, Segundus looked around: although small, the cottage was neat and well-kept, with homely touches in the embroidered cushions and tablecloths. There was some decorative pottery along the mantelpiece, and a small collection of books on the windowsill. He searched for some evidence of a man’s presence – a pair of boots, a pipe left on a table, a greatcoat hanging by the door – but could see nothing.

“I must say, this is a treat, Mr Segundus,” said Mrs Sorsby as she placed a slice of Mrs White’s fruit cake in front of him. “We never met Mr Norrell, and John was in his employ over twenty years!”

“Oh! I am not Mr Childermass’ employer!” Segundus exclaimed, looking over and catching Childermass’ laughing eyes. “We are colleagues in this business,” he said, and because that no longer seemed quite enough, quite adequate, he added more tentatively, “and, I hope, friends.”

As the conversation progressed, Mrs Sorsby’s manner relaxed, and Childermass laughed more often and more easily than Segundus had ever known. They discussed news and old friends, and although Segundus was an outsider to much of this conversation he was happy to watch them, to notice the similarities between brother and sister: the dark eyes, the long dark hair (more tidily fixed on Mrs Sorsby and mostly hidden under a white cap), the long nose (more crooked on Childermass), the gestures that accompanied their words.

Ned soon joined them, a child again sitting at his uncle’s side. Childermass turned to Segundus and said, smile creeping up his cheek, “Did you know, sir, that Ned is a magician?”

“I did not,” Segundus answered, his own smile growing as he watched the boy’s pride swell with his chest. “But now that you say it, I do not know how he could not be, with such an uncle.”

The conversation then turned to him quizzing Ned on his knowledge of magic, while Ned shewed them some of the spells he had been learning. Mrs Sorsby, it seemed, was something of a magician herself: at Ned’s encouragement she asked Segundus for his right hand. Segundus offered it, and she cradled his hand in her warm, rough palm while she studied his for some time.

“I have heard of chiromancy before, of course, but have never experienced it first-hand, if you will,” he said, finding the sudden quiet concentration of the room rather oppressive. “Vinculus has offered, but I have my doubts in his training and abilities.”

“He read mine once,” Childermass said, watching carefully. “He wasn’t too far off the mark, other than telling me I had already married three times – I’m sure I would remember such a thing happening even once, so that was rather a surprize.”

Segundus laughed at this, felt some of his own lingering unease settle. Even Mrs Sorsby snorted a little as she swapped Segundus’ right hand for his left.

“I’d be so shocked at such news of our John I’d faint dead away, I reckon,” she said, looking away from Segundus’ palm briefly to grin at her brother.

“You’ve been at it long enough, Mary, what news do you have of our Mr Segundus?” Childermass asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. She smiled knowingly at him and once more took Segundus’ right hand, scanning it more quickly this time.

“You have great wisdom and integrity,” she said, tapping the base of his middle finger. “You are intelligent, which taken along with your resourcefulness and optimism will do wonders for your business and legacy. You are not a natural leader,” she said, raising his left hand, “but you are working to become one. You may not have much in the way of physical strength or bravado-”

“And here I was worried you were doing your gentlewomen’s reading, Mary,” Childermass laughed, and she scowled a little at him but otherwise ignored the comment.

“- _but_ ,” she continued, “you persevere when things become difficult. You’ve not seen much romance,” she drew her finger across his palm, “although the few attachments you have had have been, and will be, long-lasting and fulfilling. You will marry once.” As Segundus tried to fight his blush and bit his tongue on his objection that he very much doubted he would marry, she tapped his palm and drew two fingers down parallel to the heel of his hand. “There’s much outside influence on your life, but you’re working with it and building a legacy of your own – those influences and your own work on your fate intersect, but you are not at the whims of others.”

For Segundus – who often felt more at the whims of others than a flag in a breeze – this was reassuring. Mrs Sorsby dropped his hands and sat back in her own chair.

“That was fascinating, thank you Mrs Sorsby,” he said once he had absorbed the reading. “You must explain to me how it works.”

“We don’t have time for that, Mr Segundus, not today,” Childermass laughed. “That’ll have to wait for another visit.” He turned to his sister to explain, “Mr Segundus will not hear the simple version – I was hours explaining the cards to him.”

“You’ve taught him the cards?” She asked, eyes cutting sharply to Segundus.

“Well, not precisely _taught_ ,” Segundus said, “but we had the most interesting discussion of their meanings, and the method of a reading – I certainly could not interpret a spread myself, although it is a fascinating art.” He smiled warmly at Childermass, recalling the camaraderie that had grown through that journey. “If you cannot explain the method to me today, then perhaps you could tell me how you came to learn?”

“My mother taught me,” she said slowly, with a glance to Childermass, whose expression had turned sober. “She taught us many trades as children, so we might adapt our income to the seasons.” She looked to Childermass again, something familiar in her sly expression. “The palm reading was only half of the job, though.”

“Ned,” Childermass called just as Segundus opened his mouth to ask for details. He asked his nephew to demonstrate the spell he had been taught at his last visit, and they spent half an hour admiring the boy’s enchantment of growing a tiny sapling from an apple seed. He took his uncle’s hand and pulled him to his feet, and the other adults followed them out to view the small orchard that he had started while practicing. Segundus exclaimed aloud his congratulations, and his great admiration of the talents of both the pupil and the teacher.

It was nearly four by the time the two men mounted their horses and started back on the road to Starecross, calling their goodbyes over their shoulders. Ned ran alongside Brewer until they reached the shade of the trees. The weather was still warm, but the worst of the heat had passed while they were in the cool little cottage. It was only once they had passed through the trees back onto the path that Childermass spoke.

“She was glad to meet you,” said he, hanging back a little to ride beside Segundus. “She rarely meets new people. Although she did have her best manner on, for a gentleman visitor.” Childermass laughed a little to himself at some private joke or reminiscence.

“It was my pleasure, she is a charming woman.” Segundus looked at Childermass from the corner of his eye and smiled a little. He was more relaxed than he had felt in a long time, the good humour of the afternoon having lulled him into a joking mood. “And far more handsome than her brother.”

Childermass gave a snort of laughter. “It is not a difficult feat.”

“I find you tolerable enough.” It felt a daring thing to say, but the easiness of the afternoon’s conversation had bolstered his courage. It felt even more daring to keep Childermass’ gaze after he had said it, to watch curiosity and consideration follow each other over his countenance. A smile played over Childermass’ lips after a moment, and Segundus felt understanding flow through him like a current.

“I provide for her,” said Childermass. Segundus was torn between disappointment and relief that his comment had not had a direct reply, but thought it was likely for the best. “She calls herself a widow, which is true in the most part, but really she was ill-treated.”

“You do not have to tell me,” Segundus said, but Childermass silenced him with a look. It was not a stern look, but one that simply asked to be heard out.

“Norrell never knew of it, no one did.” He continued as if Segundus had not spoken, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “He was a sailor, and not long after he jilted her his ship went down off Cornwall, and some months later Ned was born. I cannot say I was sorry for it. She wrote to me, and I settled her with the house and with a new name – I had some savings, and she wished to be away from the town.”

He was silent for a few more minutes, and Segundus was at a loss for what to say. He was not used to hearing such personal family history, especially not of such a nature. For some time, the only sounds between them were the horses’ breaths and hooves.

“The reason I tell you this is because I fear she gets lonely. I am not able to visit as often as I like. It was all very well when Norrell stayed within the walls of Hurtfew and I did not often travel further than Lincoln, or when I returned often to Hurtfew to see to the estate’s business, but now I fear I am becoming neglectful. I did not keep her secret because I was ashamed – I must be clear about that.” He fixed Segundus with a firm look, one that dared him to accuse him of such an embarrassment. “Only, I wanted her to stay far from the attention of… _certain gentlemen_ who would have been glad to use her against me.”

Segundus thought he might have a good idea of who these _certain gentlemen_ were, and wrinkled his nose.

Childermass then took a deep breath and turned to Segundus. “Now, I do not want you to feel under any obligation, but I hoped you might visit her every now and then when I am away. Ned is in need of guidance in regards to magic, his mother in need of company. There is no man I would trust more in both of these endeavours than yourself.”

Segundus was struck dumb at the request. To be so trusted, so esteemed, meant a great deal – particularly coming from someone such as Childermass.

“I would be honoured,” he answered, meeting Childermass’ gaze. And truly, he had enjoyed her company.

“Thank you, Mr Segundus.” It was the most sincere he had ever heard Childermass, and it made pride thrill down his spine.

“I think we are beyond that, Mr Childermass,” he smiled. “I beg you, call me John.”

Dark eyes crinkled in a smile, a toothy grin the likes of which Segundus had never seen on Childermass, but which transformed his face utterly. “As you wish, John. And I hope you will allow yourself to do likewise.”

They continued in a silence that was at once comfortable and heavy – it felt to Segundus like having eaten a large but delicious meal – until they parted ways on the main road; Childermass had business to see to in Thirsk, some leftover detail regarding one of Mr Norrell’s tenant farmers that Mr Robinson had asked his advice on, and Segundus had neglected Starecross for long enough.

“I will likely be on the road early tomorrow,” Childermass said, as they paused to say their goodbyes. “I do not know how long I will be away, I have much to see to.”

“There will always be room for you at Starecross,” Segundus reassured. He had kept Childermass’ room as he liked it these last four months, and had no intention of changing that. He said as much to Childermass, who laughed.

“If you have any correspondence for London or York, I will be happy to take it for you. I will be back tonight, likely in time for dinner; you can hand me any charges then. I would not like to wake you as early as I mean to set off in the morning.”

Segundus promised he would spend the rest of the evening thinking of any business Childermass could help with, while silently hoping there would not be much: he knew how much Childermass had to do already, how packed-tight his time would be.

“Goodbye, John,” Childermass said, turning Brewer towards the road to Thirsk.

The smile that bloomed on Segundus’ face took him by surprize, accompanied by a similarly unexpected warmth in his stomach.

“Goodbye, John,” he answered, and was glad of the returning smile on Childermass’ face. “If you are not back in time, I will ask Mrs White to save you some dinner.”

Childermass thanked him, and with a last touch of his hat, was off down his separate road.

Segundus carried on towards Starecross in a confusion of spirits. It was only after a few miles that he realised what Childermass had given him, the value and the meaning of it. He felt the swell of it in his breast, but kept it locked tight.


	6. july 1817

It was with joy that Segundus read Mrs Strange’s letter. So much joy, in fact, that he read it another three times to himself, and then another twice out loud to Mr Honeyfoot.

“Oh! How splendid!” Mr Honeyfoot cried. “It will be so wonderful to see her again, and Lady Pole!”

For in Mrs Strange’s letter was an invitation for both gentlemen to join them at the Wintertowne estate in Northamptonshire.

He penned a reply, an enthusiastic acceptance of the invitation, tempered only by the guilt of putting on hold all the work around him. The ladies would understand, Mr Honeyfoot pointed out, so in his reply Segundus accepted, but expressed his regret that they would be unable to stay more than three nights. Calculating in the time for the journey it was the most he knew he could spare, all he felt able to leave under the capable supervision of Charles and Mrs White.

Mr Honeyfoot looked over the letter, declared himself delighted with the contents, and travelled back to York in eagerness to tell his wife the news.

Once he had addressed and sealed the letter, Segundus looked at it for some minutes. He set it aside, picked up a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen. Once more he set out the dates of the visit, but this time addressed the letter to the inn in Salisbury at which he knew Childermass would be staying until the end of the week; he would hate to think of Childermass turning up at Starecross to find no one to receive him, to think himself unwelcome, much as he knew Charles and Mrs White would take good care of him. He picked up the sealing wax, paused, unfolded the letter to add an impulsive postscript, suggesting that if Childermass happened to be passing through Northamptonshire around the dates indicated, he would undoubtedly be welcome. The ladies would certainly be glad to see him, Segundus thought, instrumental as he had been in the restoration of Lady Pole.

It was a few days before he received Childermass’ reply, wishing him a happy visit and expressing some disbelief in Segundus’ certainty in the happiness of Mrs Strange and Lady Pole in seeing Childermass. Neither lady had ever held any great love for Mr Norrell, he pointed out, and reminded Segundus how much Mr Norrell’s man Childermass had once been, perhaps still was. Something about the curl of the letters on the page, the phrasing of it, made Segundus hear the twitch of a smile in Childermass’ voice, the huff of a laugh. It was not, he knew, a rebuke.

He smiled as he read it, disappointed as he was, and thought of Mrs Strange’s previous letter and how she had said that Childermass “ _sounded a much reformed character_ ”, and knew Childermass was likely correct.

*

The journey was a long one, over a hundred and fifty miles. The weather was unseasonably cold but largely dry, the roads remaining thankfully passable.

Mr Honeyfoot was, as always, a jolly companion, and they spent the journey alternately discussing magic, Starecross’ preparations, the Honeyfoot family (Catherine was expecting her first child, with Mr and Mrs Honeyfoot eagerly awaiting the arrival), and quietly reading when the light was good enough.

It was late afternoon on the third day by the time they arrived at the Wintertowne house, great heavy clouds massing on the western horizon. As the carriage drew up to the door, Mrs Strange and Lady Pole came out to greet them.

As they climbed down from the carriage, a great smile broke out on Mrs Strange’s face. “Mr Segundus!” She cried. “Mr Honeyfoot! How wonderful to meet with old friends and see them so little changed!” She rushed forward and took both Segundus’ hands in hers and pressed them warmly.

“It seems that Italy has agreed with you, madam,” said Segundus. “But we are very glad to have you back in England.” She laughed and turned to give the same attention to Mr Honeyfoot.

Lady Pole did not rush forward to embrace them, but stood watching with her shawl tight about her shoulders.

“My Lady,” Segundus said, stepping forward out of the way of Mrs Strange and Mr Honeyfoot and offering her a bow. “You look much recovered. I trust the travel has done you some good?” _After being so long sequestered in one place or another_ , he wished to add, but looking at her he dared not. He did not need to.

Lady Pole gave him a tight smile and a shallow nod. She was much changed since he had last seen her in February. The dark circles under her eyes which he had never seen her without had faded, and although her complexion was still pale, it no longer held the sick pallor of her long confinement first at Harley-street, then at Starecross. Her eyes, however, still held a haunted look, and now that he saw them together he saw the same shadow in Mrs Strange’s eyes.

“Come, come!” Mrs Strange ushered them into the house, and Segundus was in no doubt of whose idea their invitation had been. “We must get you settled, and then some tea. You will want to freshen up after your journey, no doubt.”

Now that he was alert to the difference in her eyes, the cheer in her voice fell flat – it was not false, not invented, but exaggerated, as if she were aware of the change in herself and was trying to make it up. It was subtle enough that Mr Honeyfoot seemed unaware of it, but Mr Honeyfoot had not visited the Stranges as often as Mr Segundus, did not know her usual tone so well.

They were shown to their rooms by liveried footmen (Mr Segundus quietly hoped that Mrs Lennox would not expect the staff at Starecross to wear such fine uniform, he dreaded to think what the waistcoats alone cost), and they refreshed themselves. Segundus washed his face – he felt dusty from the journey, even within the carriage, and wondered how Davey felt – and changed into something slightly less rumpled.

When he made his way downstairs, he found that Mr Honeyfoot had preceded him, and that there was a larger party gathered than he had anticipated. For, as the footman introduced him to the drawing room (one of three, Segundus had learned from the man as he was guided from his room, this being the Green Drawing Room), he saw that as well as his three friends, there were also a lady and gentleman both approaching the outside of middle age, and a young woman who looked up in interest as Segundus came in. There was something familiar about them, something that scratched at the back of his mind like a mouse behind skirting.

These persons Mrs Strange introduced as the Greysteels: Dr Greysteel, his sister Miss Greysteel, and his daughter, Miss Flora. In a moment Segundus remembered where he had seen them: tiny figures shimmering in a silver basin with something warmer than the Yorkshire February light. He found he liked them immensely upon their first introduction. Flora was a delightful young woman – bright and intelligent, and unafraid to make her own opinions known – and both Dr and Aunt Greysteel were solid, no-nonsense people.

Tea was served by Lady Pole, and a deal of conversation followed. Mr Honeyfoot immediately won over the elder Greysteels with his good-natured interrogation of their many travels, and with his enthusiastic descriptions of his own family, particularly Catherine’s recent marriage and the imminent arrival of their third grandchild.

“Ah, yes, and my Jane is about ages with Miss Flora – they would get on splendidly, I think!” Segundus heard Mr Honeyfoot say. “I think I heard you mention, Miss – and you must forgive me if I am wrong, as my ears grow bad – that you have an interest in magic?” And with Flora’s assent that she did indeed, Mr Honeyfoot was off, asking which particular areas interested her, explaining that Jane was now taking an interest in the subject, telling her of Miss Redruth of the York Society, and Flora was responding with equal vigour while her father and aunt looked on in bemusement.

Segundus sat back, happy to see his friend enjoying himself. He was, however, aware of a tightening of Lady Pole’s mouth, a stiffening in her posture, as the conversation turned to magic.

“It must be a great relief to be at home, my Lady?” He asked, wishing to distract her from her distress. She looked at him steadily, and he wished suddenly that he was alone with her and Mrs Strange, that they may discuss whatever lurked behind their eyes. “I remember you speaking fondly of Great Hitherden.”

“It is,” she said, her eyes travelling to the window.

He followed her gaze and admired the view over the gentle green swell of the countryside. It was a warmer, mellower country than Starecross occupied: farmland and hedgerows and undulating waves of summer meadows. It was a similar scene to the one he had known as a child, and it brought a sense of bittersweet warmth to him even as the heavens opened and battered the lush greenery. Yet there was part of him, somewhere hidden behind his ribs, that missed the sharpness of the moor around Starecross in summer with a sudden pang. The bell heather had been just starting to flower when he had left, and he found he longed for the saturation and clarity that came with the cold northern light. As pleasant as this view was, he missed the rough edges of the north for all its bleakness, the bare scrape of rock against the bright burst of heather, of gorse. This place was domesticated in a way the north could never be, and he found he had developed a taste for a certain wildness.

“London is too full of people,” Lady Pole continued. Segundus blinked himself back into the room and back to the conversation. “I could not… After such travel I felt in need of some seclusion.”

He knew enough of her experience under the fairy’s enchantment to understand, and looked to Mrs Strange in time to see the frown pass across her brow, the flex of her jaw.

“It must be a great balm to you, Mrs Strange,” he said, “to have the comfort of your friend’s presence, and also to have your brother so close at hand. Does he visit often?”

Mrs Strange turned upon him a smile which reflected something more like her old good humour, and gave a light laugh.

“Indeed – for the first few weeks after our return I think Emma feared he might never leave.” She turned her smile to her friend, and for the briefest moment a grave look flickered over her face like the shadow of a passing bird. “But it is cheering to know he is so near. I hope he and Mrs Woodhope will visit tomorrow.”

“I look forward to seeing him again,” Segundus said. “I hope I will not prove such a bore this time,” he added with a smile, and was pleased when Mrs Strange laughed.

“Oh, but Mr Segundus, you must fill me in on all that has happened!” She exclaimed. “I am sure your letters have not contained half of the things that have been going on, and that I missed while I was gone from England. Emma has filled me in on what she knows (which is obviously limited by her circumstances, but she has spoken so highly of your care, sir!), as have the Greysteels, but all of them have been absent from England (in one way or another) for so long! And so much has happened these last months! Henry has told me some, but he has been caught up so much in parish affairs.”

“Oh, I am afraid I do not think I will be as informative as you hope!” he laughed. “I was quite taken up with Lady Pole’s care while she was at Starecross, which was the better part of your… absence, and since then my focus has been rather single-minded on the School.”

Despite his objections, he tried to condense the goings-on of the last year and a half, with helpful interjections by Mr Honeyfoot and Dr Greysteel (who had religiously kept up with the English papers while abroad). He was more reliable on the past six months, and talked to them of Vinculus (whom the Greysteels were at once horrified and captivated by) and Childermass’ attempts to read the Letters upon his skin, of the chaos the government had been plunged into following the return of magic, of Segundus’ own attempts to help the situation while making the efforts to transform Starecross into the school he had always wished it to be.

The conversation continued in a lively way all through dinner and back into the drawing room. Dr Greysteel entertained them with his stories of his time at sea; Miss Flora gave charming accounts of the places they had visited and the history of them, and as she spoke he recognised the young woman Jonathan Strange had written so highly of; Lady Pole discussed the commotion in parliament she had of heard from Sir Walter, how “Norrell’s man hardly seems to be away from the place,” and was, to Sir Walter’s amusement, becoming a very stubborn stone in the government’s shoe.

For his own part, Segundus tried to keep his own conversation away from magic unless he was speaking only to Mr Honeyfoot or Miss Flora, but as the company was so mixed and cheerful he managed without difficulty.

By the time the clocks chimed eleven and the party had been stifling yawns for at least an hour (Mr Honeyfoot had quite drifted to sleep in his chair around half past nine, and none had the heart to wake him), the Greysteels decided to retire. They shook Mr Honeyfoot awake, and they all four said their goodnights.

Lady Pole, who had been quiet for much of the evening, gave a heavy sigh and rose to her feet. “I will take my leave also,” she said. “But I can see you have more you wish to discuss, Arabella.”

“I will not be too late, my dear,” Mrs Strange answered, catching Lady Pole’s hand as she passed. “I will try not to wake you.” The two ladies exchanged wry smiles, and Lady Pole left the room.

“Oh!” Segundus cried. “I hope you are not sharing a room because we have pushed you from your own! Mr Honeyfoot and I are quite used to sharing, in fact we have done so at every inn on our journey, and would happily do so here if it gave you more comfort.”

“It is not that, but thank you.” Mrs Strange sighed, smiling kindly at him. “There is room enough here. It is rather that after our enchantments, we each find it a comfort to share a bed.” She was silent a moment, and then looked at him with her dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. “We both suffer rather badly from nightmares, Mr Segundus.” She said it in such a matter of fact manner that Segundus thought she could have been describing the weather, rather than the ill aftereffects of being held captive by fairies. “It is a comfort to both of us that someone is there to either wake us from them, or to share them with after.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Mrs Strange.”

She gave him a sad kind of smile, and took his hand gently in hers, reaching between their chairs.

“Do call me Arabella, John.” One corner of her mouth curved up a little higher. “You were such a good friend to Jonathan, and I hope that friendship will extend to me.”

“Of course!” He returned her smile, felt the melancholy tug of it in his cheeks. “I did not want to seem presumptuous, particularly not in front of your companions.”

This made her laugh. “You will find that we are all three rather modern young women, although the elder Greysteels are a little more reserved in nature, I can admit.”

They laughed a little together, and sipped at the port which had been brought up to them by a different finely-liveried footman. Segundus felt something in him unwind. He let his legs stretch out towards the fire and settled himself more comfortably in his chair, certain that she would not mind a slouch in his posture. He found his mind drifting, thinking of what she had told him of her enchantment, comparing it to Lady Pole’s account in February. This naturally set him to thinking about the other occurrences of February, the disappearance of Hurtfew among them.

“He visited me in Padua,” Arabella said, when they had been silent for a few minutes, each of them staring into the fire in their own private reverie. He looked at her profile, lit by the warm glow of the fire as she gazed into the flames. “He doesn’t know where they are, but Hurtfew travels with them, it seems.”

“Did he mention the other houses? Ashfair and Soho-square, and Hanover-square? I suppose you have heard that they have also vanished.”

She gave a small shrug. “I have heard now, but had not at the time. Jonathan did not mention it, so I do not think he could have been aware.”

The same grave expression that had flickered so quickly across her countenance earlier settled more firmly, and she turned to him

“Henry has told me that Norrell changed and published Jonathan’s letters to him – hateful little man!” This last was fairly snarled, and her knuckles turned white around her glass. She turned to him, her eyes blazing. “We shall have to do something about that, John! I hope you will help me in that endeavour. Henry has told me he wishes to clear Jonathan’s name. You have published – you have the connexions to make the refutations. Will you help?”

“Of course I shall!” He squeezed her hand, noticed how small and pale hers was in his. “I will do everything in my power.”

She nodded. “We will discuss it with Henry tomorrow. If he makes it through this infernal rain.”

“I would be happy to,” he said, seeing the true reason for this invitation. “I have been thinking, in fact, of writing about Jonathan: of his work and his deeds in the war. There needs to be some balance to Norrell’s book.” He looked at her. She met his eyes with a sharp gaze, keen and penetrating, but interested. “If you would approve such a work, of course.”

“I would not only approve such a book, I would welcome it wholeheartedly, and trust you most of all with the task.” There was a glimmer in her eye which hadn’t been there a moment before, but she smiled at him warmly. “Thank you, John. Truly. You are the best man I know.”

They lapsed into a different silence this time, and Segundus thought of Jonathan Strange, could see Arabella did too. If he closed his eyes it almost felt like one of the moments they had shared during his visits to Soho-square, the frequent times when Strange had been called away by some urgent call from the government. They had talked more, then. Arabella had laughed more often and more brightly. The moments of quiet had always passed comfortably, despite the aura of magic that suffused the house scratching at the back of Segundus’ neck, rumbling low in his ears like thunder too far away to hear but close enough to feel. The moment held like a soap bubble, trembling and translucent, until it burst with Arabella’s voice.

“I notice,” she said, regarding him carefully, “that Mr Childermass features heavily in your stories.” She paused for a moment, glanced at the fire, looked back at him. “Are you certain he can be trusted?”

“I would trust him with my life,” Segundus said, realising as he said it that it was true, that he had already. _I know his sister_ , he wanted to say, but it would break a trust, and to Arabella would mean little. “He is no longer Norrell’s man, and his main goal is to see the success of English magic.”

“That was also Norrell’s goal, and look where that got us.”

Segundus gave her a wry smile. “Childermass has a different way of going about things. I cannot explain it, but I know it is true. He has proven himself to me time and again, and although I understand your wariness, I beg you give him a chance.”

The smile she turned on him was warm, and she squeezed his hand once more. “I trust your judgement, John.”

“Your husband offered him an apprenticeship, you know?” He asked, and she raised an eyebrow. “When you were presumed dead, before he went to the continent. They were discussing Jonathan’s book – Mr Childermass is quite the practical magician, you know, he was even then – and Jonathan offered to make him his student if he left Norrell’s service.”

“I did not know,” she said, and narrowed her eyes at the fire in thought. “I will give him the benefit of the doubt.” He yawned deeply, and she laughed. “I am afraid I have kept you up, John. I forget it has become a peculiarity of mine to become more active at night. I suppose it is why Emma and I make such well-suited bedfellows. But you must retire, I can see the exhaustion under your eyes! You have had such a long journey.”

“It has been most delightful talking so, Arabella.” He stood and bowed to her, then offered his arm. “Let me walk you to your room. I would not like to lose my good reputation as a gentleman.”

She laughed lightly and stood, slipping her arm into his. “I do not think you are in much danger of that, Mr Segundus. I believe your reputation is beyond reproach.”

He wished he had her certainty.


	7. august 1817

The day was one of those divisive late summer days that some found delightful and others found oppressively hot. John Segundus’ opinion was rather inclined towards the latter.

He had come to Mrs Lennox’s house in Bath in order to go over his plans for the school, the list of boys who had applied, and the list of those he had selected who would be arriving next month. It had been a positive and productive meeting: Mrs Lennox had been quite happy with his reports and descriptions of the future pupils and curriculum, had asked most particularly after the boys who would be attending with her scholarship, and had outlined what she thought necessary before the school opened.

“After all,” she said, smiling at him over the lenses of her small reading glasses, “Starecross ought to set the very standard for Schools of Magic. We must aim for quality, comfort and propriety in all things.”

This was her way of leading into the arrangements for staffing – something he had no real experience in and was happy to take her guidance on – and for the finishing touches of the furnishings of the dormitories, pantry, and wine cellar. She had been quite happy with everything he had presented on the scholarly side of things and, with her usual brisk efficiency, the whole matter had been sorted by lunchtime.

It had been the sort of meeting that he would ordinarily have walked away from brimming with Good Cheer and Optimism, as he had received both a positive response and list of things to act upon, but the heat of the day drained any energy he would have had to carry such a mood for long.

It was now nearly two, and he was feeling rather weary. It was the sort of heat that sapped energy, while also agitating its sufferers to restlessness. Bath was hot, busy and noisy, and the cumulative effect was that body and mind both were made heavy and sluggish. It was weather that might have been more bearable up on the high moors of Starecross or down by the sea, but in the stone-lined blinding-white of Bath’s streets it became almost intolerable, heat and light being reflected back at one from all sides and not a breath of wind to disturb it.

Segundus had tried to work for a while in the room Mrs Lennox had set aside for him, but he had felt too much as if he was trapped in a hot bath so, hoping to catch a breath of air, he had gone for a walk around town. The heat there had been even worse and he had grown unpleasantly sticky under his arms and down his back, so he had returned to the house, where Mrs Lennox had told him that he simply _must_ take advantage of the garden. She had recently installed a summerhouse beside the pond, and he was to go out there to catch the breeze, relax in the shade of the trees, and perhaps dip his feet in the water.

This had all sounded very agreeable, so he had set out to the bottom of the garden. Once there, he divested himself of his jacket and shoes, then removed his stockings. The furthest part of the pond was well-shaded by mature trees (and really, “pond” was too slight a word for it: it was of such a size that it seemed improbable that it should fit so well in a city garden (even one as grand as Mrs Lennox’s) and he could not quite believe that no magic had been involved in its construction), with a small tree-shaded jetty protruding just far enough to dip his feet, as Mrs Lennox had promised.

So he sat for a while in the shade, his feet in the pleasantly cool water, reading Bernshaw’s _Treatise on the Application of Magic_. He soon grew too warm again and, casting around and finding himself quite alone and hidden from the house, removed his waistcoat and loosened the knot of his neckcloth. The relief was instant, and he turned his attention back to his reading.

As he reached a particularly dense passage about the magic which can be worked using something which sounded a little like Pale’s Quiliphon (but constructed of ivory rather than metal and sounding very expensive to make indeed) a breeze ruffled through the trees, bringing ripples to the surface of the water and making him sigh in relief. All too soon it was gone.

It had, however, sparked an idea in him. Why had he not thought of it before?

He closed his eyes against the glare of the day and muttered the words under his breath, counting out the necessary refinements on his fingers: right hand for direction, left hand for strength.

The breeze came again, gentle and soothing. He fancied he felt it curl around his throat in a thank you, and laughed aloud at the joy it sent coursing through him. He splashed his feet in the pool and opened his eyes to the forget-me-not blue of the sky. He tipped his head back far enough to catch sight of the summerhouse. As it was now upside down to him, it took a moment for him to recognise the shape that had not been there earlier.

“Mr Childermass!” He gasped, sitting upright as his hands flew to his open collar. The dark figure laughed and came closer, out from the shade of the summerhouse. He too was in his shirtsleeves, and in fact the sleeves had been rolled back to his elbows, exposing his lean, wiry forearms. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing by on business and thought to check with Mrs Lennox how the school was faring.” He toed off his shoes, shed his stockings, and sat on the little jetty beside Segundus, sighing as his feet entered the cool water. “Imagine my surprize when she suggested I ask you myself.”

“I thought I had mentioned my visit to you.” Segundus closed his eyes again as the breeze soothed his warm face.

“Hmm,” Childermass grunted, and Segundus felt the thud through the jetty as he lowered himself back on his elbows.

There was a splash against Segundus’ calf, and he opened his eyes to see Childermass moving his feet in the water. He looked back at him, the long line of him stretched out on the jetty as he basked in the sun, his sleeves rolled up, waistcoat undone, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, and swallowed. The world seemed to have tilted, rested at an angle, and the slightest word or motion would send him sliding off the jetty into the water.

“This is a passable little zephyr,” Childermass said, his own eyes closed and his face tilted to the sky. “You will have to teach me the form of it. How do you control the strength?”

“It is most simple, really,” Segundus answered, feeling more stable with magic to discuss. “One can give anything the power of steering, as it were. I used my hands, for lack of anything else, but it is only symbolic.”

Childermass had propped himself up a little further and was looking at him with interest. “So if, for instance, I would like it a little brisker…?”

“I would simply take my left index finger like so-” he grasped the finger very lightly with the tips of the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his right hand, “- and raise the level.” He drew his fingertips very lightly up that one finger, just a little past the first knuckle, and as he did so the breeze increased in strength, catching Childermass’ hair and making it dance quite merrily. He smiled at Childermass, and after a moment reluctantly reduced the breeze to its previous level. “I do not want to make it too noticeable,” he apologised. Childermass was still watching his hands very intently.

“No, indeed,” he finally said, his voice a little weaker than usual, as if something were caught in his throat. He coughed and looked back to Segundus’ face. “Weather spells can be dangerous.” He gave a strange quirk of a smile which soon spread into a teasing grin. “Although I think on this particular day, the biggest danger would be drawing the entire population of Bath to Mrs Lennox’s garden.”

They spent a pleasant while discussing the magic – Segundus explaining how he had allocated each of the four fingers on his right hand a cardinal direction and could adjust the direction of the breeze by balancing each, how he thought that some kind of board could be constructed for more permanent use; Childermass reporting on a spell for rain he had read about once in a fragment that Mr Norrell had been very keen to acquire, asking where Segundus had found the wind spell. Segundus admitted (with no small amount of pride straightening his spine even as he wished to wilt in the heat) that it was a spell of his own invention.

Childermass looked at him then, sharp and appraising, and nodded slowly, eyebrows raised. “I must congratulate you then, sir. It’s a remarkable little spell.”

With a blush he hoped could be explained by the sun, he thanked Childermass, and they were silent for some moments, faces tilted towards the breeze. It did not truly feel like a natural breeze. The longer they sat in it the more Segundus felt the tingle of it, the way it sparkled like the rising sun on morning frost.

“How does it feel to you?” Segundus asked.

It took Childermass a minute to answer, and Segundus knew he had his meaning correct, that he did not merely mean the coolness of the breeze. It had been something he had wanted to ask for some time, but it had always seemed so personal a question, the timing never quite right. The sun, shining its leaf-dappled patterns onto Childermass’ white shirt so it seemed to glow, setting the hairs of his bare forearms alight as he tilted his face up and closed his eyes to the warmth, melted whatever barrier had stopped Segundus asking before like butter.

“The first bite into a fresh green apple.” It was not at all what Segundus had expected. “That moment of resistance, then the sweet, tart burst of juice.” Childermass licked his lips; Segundus watched his throat move as he swallowed. He looked to Segundus with a curious expression, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. It felt a little like a challenge, that smile, like an interrogation.

“That is not how it feels to me.” Segundus had in fact felt little more than a fizz in his veins, as if his blood had been turned momentarily to champagne. It was a feeling he was becoming more accustomed to the more he used practical magic, found it less dizzying each time.

“No two magicians use the same magic, though they may use the same spells. And no magician can truly sense his own magic as others do, as a man can never truly see himself as others do.” Childermass was still regarding him with that intent, penetrating look. It was a while before he spoke again. “How does other magic feel to you?”

“Well,” Segundus said, then sighed as he tried to collect his thoughts. “The magic of fairies is entirely overwhelming, as you know.” It was the strongest he had experienced so was the first that came to mind; Childermass nodded his agreement. “Norrell’s was… steady,” he said, struggling for the words. “Cold.” He closed his eyes and thought of the stones of York, of the sea defences he had sensed off the coast when he had visited Filey and Scarborough. “A little like sitting just too far from the fire.” He looked to Childermass for any hint that he was right, but he got no response. “Strange’s,” he said, more confident now as he had seen much more magic in person from Strange than he ever had from Norrell. “Strange’s was bright, like new cut grass, but with thunder on the horizon.” Thinking of it made the hairs on his arms and neck stand up as they frequently had while Strange was performing magic. He shuddered a little, thinking of that ominous thunder, the rawness of it, the power.

“And what of mine?” Childermass asked when he had been silent a while, his voice quiet but steady.

“Yours,” Segundus sighed, and thought. He closed his eyes and breathed in. “Yours is wind over heather and rain against stone. And pipe smoke.” _Wild but warm_ , he thought, but kept that to himself. _Like a fox’s fur_. He opened his eyes again and smiled at Childermass, who had just slipped his pipe from his pocket and was looking at him with curiously wide eyes.

“Well,” Childermass said, tamping down his pipe with a smile and a shake of his head, “that is reassuring to know.” His foot knocked against Segundus’ under the water as he bent his head to light his pipe. The cool splash up his calf made Segundus shiver.

The sweet, warm scent of Childermass’ pipe was blown past him by the breeze, and he inhaled deeply without realising he did so. The jumble of his mind of the past few weeks settled, briefly, into background noise, overtaken by the birdsong around them and the sound of children playing in the distance. The wind stirred the trees, and the bright green scent of them cooled him.

“Will you be staying long?” He asked, when they had sat for a while in that silence, full and comfortable as a favourite armchair.

“No,” Childermass sighed. A cloud of smoke passed by in the shape of the word. “I have a mail coach to catch at five. There is a schoolmaster in Gloucester I must have words with.”

“There is a schoolmaster in Yorkshire who would have words with you,” Segundus said, lulled by the summer sun and the remaining intoxicating fizz of magic in his blood. Childermass raised an eyebrow at him, slow and lazy and full of some potent thing Segundus felt ill-equipped to contemplate just then. “When you’re next passing through,” he added, feeling his face flush.

“Oh no, Mr Segundus,” Childermass said, a laugh forming at the corner of his mouth. “What words would you have with me? I would hear them now.” He stretched, his feet rising from the water briefly and his shoulders pulling back, his chest expanding out under his shirt, his body pulled momentarily into a taut line. Segundus swallowed and found he could not look away. There was something deliberate about Childermass then, about the way he was stretched out in the sun, lazy and relaxed, but it was again something that Segundus did not feel quite ready to deal with, not in such vibrant daylight.

“How you fare with Vinculus,” he stuttered out. Childermass sighed as he eased back to his previous lounging attitude. His foot knocked against Segundus’ shin as it descended into the water once more. Segundus didn’t move his own foot out of the way, and Childermass’ rested against it, cool and still beneath the surface. “He is here?”

“Raiding the kitchens, or perhaps the kitchen-maids.” Childermass nodded, his queer wry smile stretching across his face. There was a joke there somewhere, hidden, Segundus knew, in the lines of his face, but as always with Childermass he was uncertain whether or not he was the butt of it. He was starting to think that he wasn’t, and that thought made his insides do curious things.

“Please tell me you warned them,” Segundus sighed, glad to be back in familiar territory, back from the edge he had felt on the brink of. “I have no doubts that Mrs Lennox’s pantry can withstand the onslaught, but she is very fond of her maids. I would hate to see them frightened off.”

“No worries on that front,” Childermass laughed. “I left him under the supervision of the Cook.”

Segundus laughed at that, imagining Vinculus head-to-head with the intimidating Mrs Hooper.

They sat for a while longer in silence, both made quiet and lethargic by the heat of the day. Childermass asked what he had been reading, and Segundus gave him his view of Bernshaw, but it was a drawn out conversation, filled with lapses and pauses as each man’s mind wandered to other occupation.

At four, Segundus escorted Childermass inside to say his goodbyes and collect Vinculus (who had, thankfully, contained his ravishings to some meat pies and boiled eggs and left the kitchen-maids quite unbothered).

It was not far to the inn where they were to catch the coach, with the worst heat of the day over so that the streets were almost bearable. Segundus walked with them, talking with Vinculus about how he fared, and hearing a great deal about various Magical Societies and their degrees of hospitality. The King’s Lynn Society received a great deal of praise for providing excellent dinners, but the Preston Society was rather far down Vinculus’ list due to a number of complaints, which Childermass, as a Yorkshireman, was amused to hear.

It was only as the coach drew into view that Segundus remembered what he had been meaning to ask Childermass, cursed himself inwardly at being so lulled by the easiness of the afternoon that it had been washed from his mind.

“When will you next be at Starecross?” He asked, as they watched the horses being changed. Childermass did not know. “Could you then give me an address a letter might reach you? I need your advice rather urgently, I’m afraid.” He thought of the list of positions for staff Mrs Lennox had given him that morning, and the members of Hurtfew staff who had agreed to join Starecross when the school started up, of where in the household they might be best employed. He and Childermass had had a conversation of a general sort on the subject some months ago, and he would be grateful for his thoughts and knowledge of the Hurtfew staff again. All this he explained in rather a rush, keeping an eye on the movements of the driver and ostler.

Childermass gave him the name of the inn he usually stayed at when in Gloucester and said he expected to be there a few nights, all the while regarding him with a wry smile which seemed to say, _You have had me all afternoon_ , and which seemed to see how close Segundus’ feet had come to the precipice he had felt himself so on the edge of. Segundus had been selfish, hoarding Childermass’ conversation on magic rather than asking after business, and Childermass could see it.

He replied to the words rather than the smile, said that he would send the list of positions to Childermass, and received in turn a promise of a rapid reply.

The turnaround of the coach was quick, and soon Childermass and Vinculus were about to climb up to the outside seats (it being too hot a day even now to contemplate being shut up inside, even had Childermass been willing to pay the extra). Segundus said goodbye, and Childermass shook his hand warmly, firmly, once more promising to give any help he could.

Segundus watched as the coach pulled away in a cloud of dust, caught Vinculus’ wave as they rounded the corner.

That evening, lying on top of the bedcovers with the windows wide open against the heat of the night, Segundus let his mind drift to the thoughts he had avoided so diligently that afternoon.

He was, he liked to remind himself, a man who knew his own mind. He wasn’t a fool in these matters, was not inexperienced. He knew what the reactions Childermass provoked in him meant, and wasn’t afraid to admit it to himself. He was also not so dull-witted as to be blind to Childermass’ words and actions, which (he thought; he _hoped_ ) indicated a similar interest in Segundus.

What Segundus was not sure about was whether to act on any of these indications.

It had been many years since his last connexion of that sort, and his life had been simpler then, more focused on magic and study for his own interest and in keeping a roof over his head. He was now so busy with setting up his school that he barely had time to eat, and was soon to be even busier in the actual running of it. The country demanded even more of Childermass: there were ministers to keep informed and to influence, Johannites to lecture, people to keep safe from the wild magic returning, a Book to translate.

Their relationship was a delicate thing, kept up with brief visits and long letters which could never hold all of what needed to be said. It was a friendship stemming from shared experience and interest, but Childermass was so much more advanced than he, so much more experienced in magic and manoeuvring, that it had never been truly equal, and Segundus feared it would only grow more so as Childermass travelled the country and found the meaning in the King’s Letters.

This is not to say that Segundus, in his quiet moments, did not let himself entertain the idea of it. It is not that he would never imagine the sensation of Childermass’ beard against his throat, or his lips against his own. He had passed many nights in an empty Starecross just thinking what it would be like to have Childermass warm in bed beside him, talking in a low, soft night-voice about the latest magic, his latest theories on the Letters, the rumble from his chest that Segundus would feel against his cheek, or the taste of him when he took him in his mouth.

He let himself think on these things when his mind would not quiet, but he did not let himself ever think they could come into being. It was impractical. It was illegal.

Childermass was become a figurehead of sorts, championing English magic, giving speeches and advice the length and breadth of the country. Segundus was to become the headmaster of a brand new school of magic, the only one in the country endorsed by the famed Jonathan Strange. Neither of them would withstand the consequences if anything came to light. As much disdain as he held for Gilbert Norrell’s notion of _respectable magic_ , he knew what an impact such an accusation would have. He thought of Mrs Lennox’s words, _“We must aim for quality, comfort and propriety in all things_ ,” and brought his hands to rub at his face. His own ruin he could face, but he could not bear the thought of his friends being pulled down with him.

So, he limited himself to the times he had with Childermass, the discussions and the sardonic jokes, and if the conversation maybe did sometimes stray a little to what he hesitated to call the flirtatious, he would not act on it but would hoard those moments to himself to play out later. He would let himself have those moments at night before he fell to sleep: the imagined kisses; the dreamed scrape of beard over his cheek, over his thigh; the touch of a bare foot against his own.

He would play these out and take himself in hand and, when he curled in on himself to sleep, tell himself that it was enough.


	8. september 1817

September arrived with the swiftness of a runaway carriage, in that he had barely been aware of it on the horizon before it was barrelling into him and flattening him into the road.

Everything had been prepared that could be: they had taken on extra staff (a number of them previously of Hurtfew Abbey) and outfitted the footmen in Mrs Lennox’s favoured midnight blue and silver livery; the furniture to make the dormitories and classrooms and laboratories had been purchased and put into place; the pantry had been filled and Mrs White supplied with three kitchen-maids. The staff had been assigned their areas (Childermass had helped greatly with this, knowing the Hurtfew contingent’s own strengths and preferences and explaining these in his quick response to Segundus’ letter, and Charles had known how to enquire sensitively to the new starts, a task which Segundus knew he would blush and stutter through). The young gentlemen, Mr Hadley-Bright, Mr Purfois, and Mr Levy, had been settled into their own rooms and Segundus had spent many pleasant evenings discussing with them his hopes for the school and their own areas of interest.

He had known what was coming: he had drawn up his plan of the school day, the timetables, the curricula, the lesson plans, had even discussed with Mrs White the meal plans to ensure students and staff would be as well-nourished physically as they would intellectually.

What he had not been entirely prepared for was the sheer chaos a dozen adolescent boys could bring upon a household in so short a time.

Strange’s protégés turned out to be little use in this respect, being not long out of boyhood themselves and easily caught up in the excitement.

Segundus gave the first day up as a loss, and let them all talk and get to know one another, deciding it was best to give them a little time to settle in. Once each new scholar had arrived and been greeted by him at the door, he largely kept his chair by the fire in the parlour and overheard the conversations which came and went as the boys moved from the parlour to their dormitories and back, sorting out their things and claiming spots for themselves in the common rooms. It seemed much different to his own first days at school – but then he had not been one of the first pupils at England’s first School of Magic. He took the occasional turn around the house, eyes open for any signs of anxiety or tears, but saw only excitement. The worry in his chest settled a little more each time, and he returned to the parlour.

“Well, they seem a jolly bunch!” Hadley-Bright exclaimed when a shout took all the boys running out to the garden. He was standing with his arms behind his back, looking out of the window with keen eyes and a flush of excitement high on his cheeks.

“They do,” Segundus agreed. “It is nice to see such exuberance and enthusiasm, but I do hope they will be calmer when lessons start.” In the face of such gleeful disorder, he was starting to doubt his own ability, to wonder if perhaps opening a school for several boys would have been a better idea if he had ever taught more than three pupils at a time.

“Oh, no doubt, sir!” Levy said from his seat at the window. “No day is as thrilling as the first. They will soon find the rhythm of the place, as will we.”

After breakfast the next morning, while the boys were still a little dull from sleep, Segundus laid out the plans for the year.

During the first term they would cover magical history. In the spring they would add magical theory to the syllabus, and only in summer (when they had a good grounding in the subject) would they move onto practical magic. Throughout the year they would also learn the English, arithmetic, and Latin they would study in any other school, along with a little dancing courtesy of Mr Levy (“It may be very well for a magician to shun dancing,” he had said to Segundus some weeks before, “but we are also educating gentlemen, and a gentleman must be able to dance.”).

The students seemed a little disappointed by this, but Segundus understood their feelings and explained his reasoning as best as he could, and in the end they seemed pacified, if not exactly pleased. In their place, he too would be most looking forward to casting spells of his own; he had been in that place for thirty years, but knew that at twelve years of age six months can feel like thirty years.

After that first day, the weeks flew by at a speed of knots. The school found its rhythm, boys and masters both, and although the unbridled exuberance had (thankfully) settled into something more sedate as everyone grew used to the schedule of lessons and mealtimes and trips to the village church on a Sunday, the enthusiasm for magic remained.

Before Segundus knew it, they were into the third week of the month, and the Wednesday drew him to York. He was slightly concerned about leaving the school in the care of his three junior masters so near the start of term, but Hadley-Bright and Purfois cheerfully told him not to worry, what could go wrong in two days? Levy had been more reassuring, reminding him of the rules and that anyway, Mrs White was unlikely to let them get away with very much in the way of trouble (either students or masters).

So Segundus left for York, resisting the urge to chew at his fingernails for the whole journey, but often casting his eye into the small silver basin he had brought with him, filled with as little water as he could get away with. Nothing, at least, was on fire when he looked.

They arrived at the Olde Starre Inn and, leaving Davey to see to the carriage and the horses and then to his own devices until the morning, Segundus stopped only long enough to leave his things in his room before taking the short walk to Lady-Peckitt’s Yard.

“Mr Segundus!” Mrs Pleasance cried when she opened the door. “Don’t you look well!” She looked almost ready to embrace him.

“And you, madam,” he replied, smiling and giving her a small bow.

“Oh, come in, come in!” She ushered him inside and to the small table at which he had eaten so many meals. “I was so pleased to get your letter, Mr Segundus!” As she spoke, she moved around the kitchen, pulling down plates and cups, dishing out food and setting a fragrant loaf of bread on the table. “I always like to know how my lodgers are doing, even if they’re no longer under my roof. And you _have_ done well for yourself, sir! I always knew you would, you know. I was just saying to my sister the other week of how you were always so hard at work studying, and then teaching, and that good was bound to come of such determination, even with everything that miserly man took from you.”

“You are too kind, Mrs Pleasance. Have you any lodger now?”

“Oh, yes, I have a young lady who is _very_ keen on magic herself, a Miss Frye. She is looking for work as a governess – poor thing, parents dead and her aunt and uncle threw her out as soon as she turned eighteen! – but she’s making the most of things.”

Over lunch he recounted how the school was doing, how it was different to what he had imagined, how he was constantly surprized by the sharpness of his pupils, how he was pleased by their perplexing questions and their talent at getting him to think of things from angles that would never have occurred to him. He heard her news of her family and her lodgers, of the various goings-on in York of their shared friends and acquaintances, heard much of her nephew’s law career in Manchester. As he heard more of Miss Frye, he persuaded Mrs Pleasance to encourage the young lady to attend the Society, that he was sure Miss Redruth would be pleased to have some more female company at the meetings.

By the time he had to say his goodbye, he felt much more at ease than he had in weeks, and was more than ready to head off to the commotion of the Society meeting.

The Olde Starre Inn was much busier upon his return. He slipped through the crowds waiting for the meeting downstairs and went to his room to collect his papers. His conversation with Mrs Pleasance had put him in a bright mood, and the prospect of updating the society with news of the school was weighing less heavily on him than it had on the carriage ride.

He did not return to the downstairs bar, but instead went straight to the Long Room. There were already a few familiar faces assembled – Dr Foxcastle, Mr Taylor and Mr Hurt had arrived early to claim the best seats, and were glowering at where Mr Honeyfoot was speaking to someone with his back to the room, still in coat and hat. Honeyfoot spotted Segundus quickly, as soon as he did his face split into a wide grin.

“Why, here he is now!” He cried. “Mr Segundus!” He waved Segundus over, and Segundus walked towards him, unable to stop his smile at the warmth of his friend’s greeting. Mr Honeyfoot stepped past the gentleman he had been speaking with to shake Segundus’ hand in both of his, warm and firm. “Here is our schoolmaster! It is good to see you, my friend! It has been too long by half! I had hoped to visit sooner, but with-”

“And it is wonderful to see you, Mr Honeyfoot.” Segundus found himself forced to interrupt, knowing that Honeyfoot would go on in the same vein until stopped. “And I know you have been busy. How is Catherine? I hope she is quite recovered! How does it feel to have yet another lady in the family?”

“Oh, she is very well, she and little Isabella both! Oh,” Honeyfoot beamed, “but she is a delightful little creature! You will have to meet her the next time you are all in town! I am sure she will prove an excellent influence on her cousins.” A wash of serenity passed over Honeyfoot’s face, a condition Segundus had often heard of in grandparents, as if he had fallen into a reverie of young Isabella’s many good attributes. Segundus glanced away for a moment to find Honeyfoot’s previous partner in conversation looking at them with an amused tilt to his mouth.

“Mr Childermass!” Segundus cried, jerking Honeyfoot out of his daydream. “We did not expect you! What a wonderful surprize!” He managed to extract his hand from Honeyfoot’s and extended it to Childermass, who shook it firmly.

“I wasn’t sure we’d get here in time – as you know, we were held up by the business in Goudhurst – but we managed to get here this afternoon.” He looked around the room and scowled. “Have you seen Vinculus?” Segundus was about to say that no, he had not, when Vinculus’ unmistakable cackle sounded from the stairs. Childermass’ shoulders seemed to drop a little, and he turned a wry smile on Segundus. “I am afraid that I have disappointed these gentlemen.” He nodded to the three men by the fireplace.

“How, this time?” Segundus asked, giving Childermass a smile of his own.

“I believe they had hoped they would have a meeting without either myself or Vinculus present.” Childermass laughed, short and low. “We bring down the tone, apparently.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Honeyfoot interjected. “We are lucky to have you, and anyone who says otherwise is a pompous fool!”

Childermass turned a look on Honeyfoot then that was strange in its rarity. His mouth remained as wry as ever, but a look of surprized gratitude passed over his eyes and his brow so quickly that Segundus almost missed it; Honeyfoot seemed not to have seen it at all, but Childermass inclined his head towards him in a slight nod.

“That is kind of you to say, sir, but I hardly think Dr Foxcastle will be convinced any time soon.” There was something strange in his face, then, and Segundus found himself studying it. His habitual wry mouth presented a hint of self-deprecation, but there was pride in his eyes and a straightness to his spine, a knowledge that he was above the self-important men sitting on the dais. His eyes flicked away from Honeyfoot and caught Segundus’ gaze, held it for a long moment as his smile turned into something that included Segundus in that assessment, one eyebrow rising up his forehead as if to say _We are the only men in this room with any sense of purpose_. Segundus felt himself returning that smile, felt it creep slowly across his lips, until he was snapped back to attention when he realised that Honeyfoot had asked him a question.

“I am sorry, Mr Honeyfoot, what was that?” He asked, feeling his cheeks heating. “It does get so noisy in here.”

The clamour in the room was indeed growing, as the magicians who had gathered downstairs made their way into the room for the meeting, chatting and arguing all the while. Mr Honeyfoot agreed that it was a terrible rabble, and repeated his inquiry into the settling of the school.

Segundus answered honestly – that it had been more difficult than he had imagined, but was a constant surprize and joy to him to see his students learning even over so short a time – but found himself a little nervous as he spoke, feeling Childermass’ gaze on him, knowing he was listening to every word.

The meeting was called to order shortly after, and Segundus gave his update on the school to the assembled crowd, followed by Mr Thorpe’s paper on magical methods of cotton spinning. Neither man was greeted with anything more than the amount of attention that could be considered polite, the room buzzing with the anticipation and restless energy that tended to overtake the Society when the members noticed the presence of Childermass and Vinculus.

Once Mr Thorpe had finished, Childermass opened the floor to any magicians present who wished to study the Book of the Raven King. Vinculus practically slid off his stool as the room turned to a cheery kind of chaos around him, pulling off his shirt when he got to the middle of the room. A crowd of magicians swarmed around him – it was the first time in months he and Childermass had attended the Society – and began scribbling eager notes and shouting in support or derision of each other’s theories.

Segundus kept his seat, preferring to study Vinculus with Childermass in peace and quiet when they visited Starecross, and instead talked to Mr Thorpe about his paper and Mr Honeyfoot about his new granddaughter and the research he had begun on medical magic. From the corner of his eye, he kept track of Childermass moving around the edges of the room, watching the hive of activity around Vinculus, talking to Miss Redruth whose earnestness and passion was evident even from across the room. Every now and then, Childermass would catch his eye, watching him in turn for a moment or two before looking back to whoever was trying to keep his interest.

The evening proceeded with a swiftness that Segundus was unused to with the Society, and before long the magicians were filing out of the room and Childermass was shoving Vinculus’ shirt against his chest (his lower half was never studied when Miss Redruth was present, by silent agreement of the gentlemen, and with not-so-silent belligerence from Miss Redruth who felt that whatever lay beneath a man’s breeches should be no barrier to her study of the Book of the Raven King, the noblest undertaking she could conceive).

With much hand-shaking and reminders to visit, Segundus said his goodnight to Mr Honeyfoot, making his friend promise to write to tell him when Catherine and her husband would be visiting from Leeds so he could finally meet little Isabella. Dr Foxcastle and the rest of the committee slipped out with no small amount of grumbling, and then Segundus was left alone with Childermass and Vinculus, the latter snoring in Foxcastle’s usual chair.

The sudden quiet of the room was a relief, and Segundus took a deep breath as if he could inhale it.

“You have rooms?” Childermass asked, sliding into a chair with a sigh. Segundus sat next to him, taking a moment to appreciate the peace. His ears were still ringing a little from the conversations and arguments that had until so recently filled the air.

“I do, just upstairs.” Saying it made his ears burn, as if he were betraying some great secret instead of letting a friend know about his lodging arrangements. Childermass just looked at him, a little sideways, and gave a slow nod.

“By the sounds of it, Mr Honeyfoot would be pleased to save you the cost of the room.” Childermass spoke slowly, that once-infuriating ironic smile stretching over his lips.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose on them so regularly,” said Segundus, shaking his head. “Particularly not when they are so often visited by their family.”

“I hope then, sir, that you do not see Vinculus’ and my visits to Starecross as an imposition.” The sly twist still hung around Childermass’ mouth, and Segundus found himself blushing.

“Indeed not!” He objected, even as he knew he was being teased. “You should know that I look forward to your visits most keenly, Mr Childermass.”

“I thought,” Childermass said, his smile slow as treacle, “I had asked you to call me John?”

This statement had a very peculiar effect on Segundus. It froze his breath in his lungs and turned his insides swirling, as if his guts had been transformed into a flock of roosting starlings. The room seemed very quiet, with only Vinculus’ snores and the muffled sounds from the bar downstairs, and Segundus’ pulse seemed suddenly very loud in his ears. There seemed less space in the room, less air, as if the walls had shrunk inwards, and most of the remaining space seemed to be filled by Childermass’ large, dark eyes, regarding him with a shrewd kind of intensity.

The room was dark, and growing darker as the candles around the walls and on the tables reached their ends after hours of burning, one by one. Only the fire beside them cast a steady glow, softening the sharp edges of Childermass’ smile, shining in his eyes. It was a comforting light, hiding more than it illuminated. Segundus felt a movement within him, the box he so carefully kept tightly locked and tucked away. It was the snick of a key, the scrape of a latch. It was the cool brush of a bare foot against his own. There was no sunlight here now to frighten such thoughts away.

“I hope,” he stammered, his mouth suddenly dry, and he found he was unable to look away. He swallowed, throwing all the weight he could against the lid of that box. “I hope the reason you have not visited these last months is not because you have felt unwelcome.”

Childermass laughed at this, low and rough, and pulled his pipe from his breast pocket, finally pulling his gaze from Segundus, freeing him from whatever spell had been placed on him.

“You needn’t worry about that, Mr Segundus,” he said, casting a quick glance back as he lit his pipe. “London is a needy mistress, the Ministers even more so.”

“Mr Segundus, is it?” Segundus asked, his grip slipping, so quietly he was surprised when Childermass looked at him.

Childermass gave a deep sigh, and together they watched the plume of smoke curl up towards the ceiling. The tendrils of grey smoke, caught by the light of the dying fire and the low candles, seemed to spell something out in some ancient language. The meaning of it was almost clear to Segundus. He almost reached his hand up to touch it, but pulled himself back at the last moment, tucked his hair behind his ear instead. The bowl of Childermass’ pipe flared as he took another draw, illuminating the amber in his eyes where they rested on Segundus’ temple, and on his next exhale the scent of tobacco reached Segundus’ nostrils, warm and sweet and full.

“You are always welcome,” he said, not aware he was going to speak until the words were out. “Always.”

He looked over, and the sight of Childermass held his gaze. There was something in his eyes, something more naked than Segundus was used to seeing in him, something open and vulnerable that hurt a little to look at. He looked tired, Segundus realised, and wondered how many days he had spent travelling; he knew well that from Kent to York was no small journey. Within the cage of Segundus’ ribs came the clatter of a chest thrown open.

Childermass took his pipe in his hand and opened his mouth to speak, but started a little as Vinculus let out a great snort and woke with a jump. Segundus blinked, swallowed, stepped away from the edge in Childermass’ eyes, still a little dizzy with vertigo.

“What’s this?” The Book asked, looking around accusingly as if he suspected someone of dumping a bucket of cold water over him or pinching him viciously. Segundus sympathised. “Time’s it?” He squinted at Childermass, who was already on his feet and scowling.

“Time we were gone,” he answered, gruff, chewing on the bit of his pipe. “Off to bed with you.” He turned and sketched a rough bow. “Goodnight, Mr Segundus.”

“You should visit soon,” said Segundus, rising to return Childermass’ bow. “I would like you to see the school, meet the pupils. Your rooms are as they have always been, and are always ready.”

The frown that had creased Childermass’ face when Vinculus had snorted awake eased as he looked at Segundus in the fading firelight. He was little more than a shadow at the door, the orange glow in the bowl of his pipe somehow casting him further into darkness by comparison. He nodded once and stepped back, disappearing into the gloom of the corridor.

Segundus stood for some time in the room, uncomfortably aware of the beat of his heart, at once unaccountably irritated with Vinculus and immensely glad for his presence. It was only when the maid came into the room and looked surprised to see him that he left and climbed the stairs to his room.

That night, it took Segundus a long while to get to sleep, unused as he now was to the noise of a city street outside his window, with his mind busy with his conversations from the meeting, with the autumn air making his bed seem so cold despite the fire. When he did sleep, he dreamed of laughing ravens and dark, liquid eyes lit by the flare of a pipe.


	9. october 1817

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hundred thousand thanks to the marvellous [@palavapeite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite/pseuds/palavapeite) for her cheerleading and amazing beta on this chapter when I had a bit of a crisis <3

The last week in October was dark and foul; the demonstration of _Chauntlucet_ Segundus had planned for the full moon was cancelled because in the first instance the moon was nowhere to be seen, and in the second he had not much fancied standing out in the driving rain in the pitch-dark night, and imagined the students would have had even less patience for it than he.

For the past week the rain had been slow and persistent, hastening the ever-encroaching autumn darkness until most of the day felt like premature night. Segundus found himself thinking back to his letters from Strange in Venice and feeling an acute sort of sympathy with him, eternal as such weather felt. With alarming swiftness, the steady, drizzling gloom had intensified into the wind and rain that now battered Starecross, rattling the windows and hissing in the fireplaces until it was all that could be heard. He once more thought of Strange, of the storm he had summoned to disguise the movement of his darkness. Sighing over his writing desk, Segundus wished it was as easy for a magician to banish a storm as to conjure one.

It was not the first time Segundus had experienced this sort of weather at Starecross, but when his main business had been ensuring Lady Pole’s comfort it had seemed more poetic and romantic, and less stifling. With a dozen boys and three young masters to keep to purpose it was a rather different affair. The daily walks in the garden and across the wider moor had ceased, not through any decree but through general unwillingness to face the elements. He should, he reflected with a sigh, be using the opportunity to teach the students about weather and the magic thereof: the particular qualities of English rain and English wind and English mud, but he knew that all he was likely to impress upon them was English misery.

The mood within Starecross was restless; masters, students, and servants alike prowled the rooms and corridors as if in search of some elusive thing, whether friends or work or some other distraction, or just a way to release the need for movement they usually burnt off outside. Segundus sometimes thought he saw the formless, shadowy thing he knew he himself trailed after in the gloomy hallways, always just ahead, always just out of reach, always disappearing around one of Starecross’ labyrinthine twists, or vanishing up one of the odd staircases that led to nowhere.

He watched as students caught movement from the corner of their eyes and jerked their heads up to miss whatever it was they had sensed or heard in the wailing of the wind through the trees and in the chimneys. He wondered if, two months into term, the excitement had waned and homesickness had set in. He had sat up late one evening with Edward Flint (a small, bright boy who was enthusiastic in lessons and eager to learn), the boy in tears because he missed his mother and his sisters, and had tried his best to comfort him with warm milk and kind words. It had been a soft evening, quiet, and Edward had gone to bed with eyes that were red but dry, taking breaths that no longer hiccoughed. Segundus knew, however, that whatever the mood was now, it was not the sinking, cloying sadness of Edward Flint’s; it was something with a rougher edge. There was nothing sinister about it that he could detect, nothing supernatural, but nevertheless it scraped at them all like a cat’s tongue.

Unsure as he was of the reasons behind the rest of the school’s mood, he thought he knew the reason for his own agitation, and the idea of that knowledge was as comforting as it was vexing.

Childermass had not been at the Society that month, had explained his absence in a brief note which raised more questions than it answered. This was not unusual – he often missed meetings and seldom felt the need to tell anyone why. They had no agreements in place, there was nothing to bind Childermass to any explanation, no reason why Segundus should know the intricacies of how he spent his time. It was ridiculous to think himself due any more than he received.

There had, however, been a number of things Segundus had wished to discuss with him, and even now, almost two weeks on from that missed meeting, he could not help the twist of disappointment in his breast when he read a paper that had sparked an idea, or spoke to a boy who had asked a difficult question.

There were other things, too.

Childermass had visited Starecross only briefly the previous month, the day following the Society meeting, stopping only long enough to collect the letters that had arrived for him. There had been no time to speak, no space, not to speak as Segundus needed to speak, to say the words that had lingered on his tongue and in his breast since the previous night, unwilting. Segundus had lessons to teach, there were boys in the library, in the corridor, too many eyes and ears. He had had to content himself with looking upon Childermass and seeing the same wish in his eyes, with shaking his hand as he departed; but even then, Childermass had been in such a hurry he had not removed his gloves. He was expected in Newcastle. In the stable Brewer was being refreshed but not unsaddled.

There had been many moments when Segundus had thought to pen a letter, to describe as well and as discreetly as he could the things he had been on the verge of saying. When he felt the increasingly rare warmth of sunlight on his skin he thought of it; when he caught the scent of Mr Purfois’ tobacco of an evening in the parlour he thought of it. He wondered if perhaps getting some of those words out would help, if it would feel like releasing a held breath. A dozen times he set down a dozen words and realised the impossibility of it, and the words proved their use only by burning.

It was a balm, then, that he had the school, had a purpose to which to set himself, too many eyes on him to let himself falter. There were lessons to give, to plan, questions to answer, instructions to give. He had never run a household, and knew the servants were patient with him as he learned. This sometimes gave him a twinge of embarrassment, that he should have reached the age of forty-three with no such experience, but he found himself glad now for the keen edge it gave him, for the sharp attention he had to pay when he discussed budgets and other necessities with Mrs White and Mrs Lindsley and Charles and their exasperation.

Since that meeting of the York Society he had spent a great deal of energy attempting to repack the box he kept tucked behind his lungs. He had spent many months keeping it in careful order, only opening it to inspect the contents in the moments he had most need of them. However, since that conversation in the Long Room – and truly, there had been more silence than speech, but Segundus knew that silence was where the danger in such things lay – when the contents had spilled out and found their way into his bloodstream, into his mind, into his heart, they had been quite impossible to put away again.

When he thought of Childermass – more particularly, when his thoughts _strayed towards_ Childermass rather than if he thought of him directly and with some purpose (such as what his thoughts might be on a particular theory, in which case he had some control of things) – his mind’s eye conjured dark, sparking eyes and the sharp edge of a smile glinting out of some warm, smoke-scented darkness. This had suited him well enough when it was only in the dark he opened that box and contemplated such images (and those images were often only the beginning of his contemplations), but they now surprized him in the most inopportune moments: sitting in the library helping a student with some question he would be reminded of how Childermass’ legs had stretched out so easily before the fire; talking to Charles he would feel the desperate, bewildered clutch of Childermass’ hand on his arm, the sensation magnified by memory.

One evening, tidying in the library to give some purpose to his restlessness, a sheet of paper fell from the pages of a book, and upon it he found a pencil drawing of a somewhat formidable-looking lady upon a throne holding a sword – _Reyne D’Epee_ , the words beneath her proclaimed. He recognised Childermass’ hand at work (the style being in keeping with his cards and of a size with them) and recalled a comment that some of the deck was needing replaced. This evidence of Childermass – casually left in a place that had been convenient at the time, a place he knew was safe and to which he would return – clamped a hand on Segundus’ shoulder and forced him to sit down. He felt a little like he was trespassing, but he had never had the opportunity to investigate the detail of the drawings; he had seen so many of them during that journey to London that his head had swum, and whenever Childermass had read the cards in front of him since it had been with such swiftness that Segundus was barely able to distinguish which cards had been dealt before they were swept up and shuffled once more.

Looking down at the sketch, Segundus thought there was something of Mrs Lennox about the figure, self-possessed and intelligent, a hint of a knowing smile on her face. Segundus looked at it for some time, taking in the drape of the lady’s clothes, the tumble of her hair, the sharp points of her crown. He thought he remembered the evening this had been drawn, Childermass sitting on the newly-cushioned bench by the window, the summer sunlight making the paper glow and shining through the warm tones of his dark hair. The house had been quiet then, and although now he could hear the far-away chatter of the boys as they settled into their beds for the evening, Segundus held the paper to his chest and closed his eyes to better recall that afternoon.

He let his memory dwell on the way the light had caught on the day-old growth of Childermass’ beard, on the sound of his rough laugh and the joke in his eyes as they had walked together through the garden, the crooked smile upon his lips. He let himself think of Childermass’ low, serious voice when they had sat together after dinner and Segundus had told him in detail of his experience of sharing a home with a fairy enchantment. He flexed his hand as he recalled the way Childermass’ fingers had brushed his own as he passed a glass of brandy, and let himself wonder what might have happened if he had paused in his own movements, had let that brief touch linger.

When he had reminisced as much as he could bear, he slipped the sketch back into the book and stood. Smiling his goodnight at Mr Purfois as they crossed paths at the door, he took the book to Childermass’ room and left it on the desk beside the pile of letters. He stayed a moment, regarding the room by the weak light of his candle. The last time Childermass had left this room, he had left a neckcloth draped over the back of the chair; it was long washed and put away in the sturdy chest of drawers in the corner, but Segundus found his fingers reaching for the spot where it had hung, feeling the smooth, hard wood rather than the softness of well-worn linen. A moment later he left, locking the door behind him, and took the seven steps down the corridor to his own bedroom.

His own room was better lit, the fire burning brightly in the grate, and by that light he sat on his bed and laid out the contents that had spilled forth from that space within him. He arranged them neatly on the counterpane and regarded them more carefully than was his habit, in better light than he was used. He studied them for a long time, until his candle burnt itself down and his heart ached. When he realised the rest of the house had fallen into the silence of sleep he started to put them away. He found the box as stained and crumpled as butchers’ paper, as useful as wet newsprint, and knew it was no use trying to repack it. Instead, he folded each moment gently and pressed them into his breast one by one. His ribcage would have to hold them all; they had already seeped into his blood, it made no difference if they grew to fill his heart.

By the last Sunday of the month, the weather had not broken, but Segundus’ restlessness had overcome him.

After the trip to church – a walk of a little over a mile each way which resulted in the entire Starecross contingent dripping prodigiously all over the entrance hall on their return, much to the horror of Mrs Lindsley the housekeeper – Segundus decided that he was as wet as he was likely to get, and that he might as well saddle Swithun and pay an overdue visit to Mrs Sorsby. He had spent too much time cooped up in the twitchy atmosphere of Starecross, and even such a brief escape as the walk to church and back had fixed in his mind a need for further travel.

When Davey heard of his plan (and when it was made clear that there was no way of talking Mr Segundus out of the journey), Segundus was forcibly pressed into the coachman’s many-caped greatcoat. It was a good deal too big for him, but was a good deal thicker and more weatherproof than Segundus’ own, so he did not complain about the treatment. He was given a well-wrapped slab of parkin by Mrs White which he stowed carefully in his bag, and set off with his hat pulled firmly down.

He had travelled to the small cottage often enough now that Swithun knew the way, and made the journey a little more briskly than his usual steady, plodding pace. Although never an enthusiast of riding, Segundus had grown more used to the exercise and to the character of Swithun, and his thighs no longer ached after the few hours’ ride between Starecross and the small cottage at the foot of the moor. Growing accustomed to the riding did not necessarily translate to enjoyment, but he found that despite the dreadful weather it felt good to be out in the open. He was, however, glad when the road took him down from the top of the moor into the shelter of the valley.

He left Swithun in the small lean-to beside the cottage, greeted enthusiastically by Ned who ran out to meet them. Together they removed the saddle to give the horse some relief, and Ned was happy to be left to brush Swithun down and feed him some sweet hay while Segundus entered the cottage.

Mrs Sorsby welcomed him warmly, the kettle heating on the fire and well on its way to boiling. The cottage – the source of such cool relief in the summer – was now wonderfully cosy (Segundus had not realised quite how cold his thighs had become), and was illuminated by the flickering fire and a couple of tallow candles in the far corner, throwing their light over the small loom Mrs Sorsby had been working. She bullied him out of his coat and hung it by the fire, where it steamed merrily, and gave him a handkerchief with which to wipe his face.

When all this was done and Ned had reappeared, he was ushered into a chair and they all sat with a hot drink and some of Mrs White’s parkin.

“I hadn’t expected to see you, Mr Segundus, given the weather,” Mrs Sorsby said, when Segundus’ fingers were no longer clumsy with cold.

“Oh,” Segundus said, looking instinctively to the rain-streaked window, through which little was visible other than the dim grey half-light. He turned back to her and saw the curiosity behind her wry smile. “It was time to stretch my legs a little.” She raised an eyebrow and her smile climbed up her cheek. “And,” he continued, feeling the need for some other explanation, “I thought that Mr Childermass would be rather disappointed in me for leaving Ned so long without proper quizzing.” He looked to the boy and was rewarded with a grin. Ned leapt to his feet and ran through to the other room, where they could hear him rummaging.

“Have you heard from him lately?” Mrs Sorsby asked, voice light as she took a dainty bite of parkin.

“A brief note last week,” Segundus sighed, chasing a crumb about his plate with his fork. “He was caught up longer in Boscastle than he had expected, but did not say why.” He gave a shrug and looked back to her. “Did he visit last month, after the Society? He stopped to collect his letters from Starecross and said he would drop by on his way north.”

“He did, only for a little while. Ned was happy to see him.” She looked at Segundus until he began to itch under her sharp gaze. She took a breath as if to speak, but was interrupted by the appearance of Ned, who had returned with a roughly-tied hoop of willow. “Edward Sorsby, not inside!” She said instead, pinning her son with a formidable look. Segundus was relieved not to be on the receiving end of it any longer.

Instead of a demonstration, Ned described the intended outcome of his magic and how it was done – the hoop of willow encouraged to grow shoots which could be shaped to the magician’s whim. Chest puffed out in pride, Ned proclaimed that he had made a whole row of frames on which peas could be grown, and was going to sell the ones they would not use when next they went to the market in Thirsk. He would show Mr Segundus, but (and here he received another pointed look from his mother) they were over the far end of the garden, and the rain wasn’t letting up. Segundus laughed and told him he looked forward to seeing them some other day, and instead asked about the theory he had been reading about, asked what he had learned since his last visit. His mother told him to put the hoop away and bring out the book Mr Segundus had lent them last time.

Segundus looked at Mrs Sorsby then, straight-backed in her chair, and thought of the Queen of Swords, saw a little of her in that sketched figure, too, in the line of her brow. He thought of that bright summer day, his hand cradled in hers, Childermass’ low, contented laughter in his ears, and he asked her now to explain it to him.

She looked at him plainly for a moment, evaluating his intent, and told him how a person’s life was lived with their hands, how she could tell without seeing his face or clothes that he was a gentleman and a scholar by his neat nails, his soft skin, by the ink stains on his right hand (and he thought then of Childermass, face close in the jostling lamplight, rough voice telling him _“the history of people is written all over them and they carry it with them wherever they go”_ ). She told him of the lines and mounts and plains of the palm, how they differed and what they signified. She told him how she could tell the potential of a person, the shape fate had sketched out for them, and in which direction they had turned that potential, how they had redrawn those lines. A hand was an ever-changing thing, she said, the same as a mind, as a heart.

“How did you come to read palms, Mrs Sorsby?” he asked, suddenly all curiosity. “How did Mr Childermass come to read his cards?” It was a question that had been on his tongue throughout each of his visits, but he had never quite summoned the courage to ask. Perhaps his trek through the wind and rain had emboldened him, saturated him in a kind of reckless Romanticism. Perhaps her low, heathery voice had once more lulled him into some trance of comfort.

She looked at him, dark eyes shrewd; in that moment she looked uncannily similar to her brother, and he knew he had overstepped. “That’s not my story to tell,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s a confidence you’ll have to earn, and not from me.”

“I am sorry,” he said, looking towards the fire, but he knew it was too late, she had already seen the spillage inside him. His ribs were stained with it, had been for months. “I-”

He was cut off by the shock of her taking his hand, pulling it towards her and drawing her finger firmly across the top of his palm. He flexed his hand at the tickle of her touch. She looked back at him with a sideways smile, her head tilted like a bird’s.

“He’d tell you, you know,” she said, and her hand was warm and dry against his. “If you asked him.”

He sucked in a great breath and looked down at his large pale hand in her small brown one, his upwards-facing palm seeming too soft and vulnerable there. He felt a flash of irritation towards it for giving him away so easily, but was at the same time astonished by Mrs Sorsby’s skill.

“I ought to be going,” he said instead of the numberless other things surging in his breast.

Mrs Sorsby laughed a little at the look on his face and looked past him to the small window. “Aye, I’d say so if you want to get back before dark. The moon will be just past full tonight, but you won’t get the benefit of it.” She pressed his hand between her own and released him. Now that he had his hand back, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He stood, looked around the small, homely room, and saw Ned standing in the doorway between the two rooms, a childlike solemnity on his face, and Segundus knew he had waited here, had felt the heft of the conversation and known not to intrude. He held the book ( _A Child’s History of the Raven King_ , Segundus’ own copy) clutched to his chest as he looked at Segundus with disappointed eyes.

Segundus smiled at the boy, knowing at least what to do here, and told him to keep the book a while longer, to learn his favourite tale by heart and recite it next time. Ned’s face split in a grin and he dashed back to put the book back wherever he kept it, and then ran out into the rain to see to Swithun. Mrs Sorsby helped Segundus into Davey’s greatcoat, and he could tell she was laughing a little at the sight of him. He pulled his hat and gloves back on and thanked her for her hospitality.

“You should come to Starecross,” he said, the impulse seizing him as he stood before the rough door. “On Friday. The boys have persuaded Mrs White to make soul-cakes, and we have a great celebration planned for All Hallow’s. I have been hearing of nothing but divination for weeks, and thought you might like to read some palms, or tell some stories, or bob for apples, or simply share in the festivities. Ned would be welcome; I would like him to see the school. I could send Davey with the carriage.”

She only smiled at him by the light of the fire, and then Ned called him from the lean-to, and he knew he must go.

Although darkness was creeping closer, the rain at least let up a little as he rode home, and they walked with the wind rather than against it so that it felt as if it were urging them along. By the time he reached Starecross there was a tear in the clouds, just a small glimmer of grey autumn twilight. At the edge of that moth hole, the silvery shine of the moon illuminated the ragged edge of cloud.

As he passed the parlour window on his way to the stables he heard laughter, and felt a storm had broken.


	10. november 1817

It was a phenomenon he remembered from his own school days: the restless mood seemingly verging on mania that took hold of a group of young people on a day of high winds. The storm of previous weeks was gone, the sky no longer the dark, leaden grey of premature night, but a bright, cold blue despite the encroaching winter.

The wind, however, had kept its spirit. It rattled the windows and howled through chinks in the frames and under the doors, moaning through the trees like the end of the world. Autumn leaves piled in corners and got caught in eddies until the whole school seemed to be disintegrating in a whirlwind of brown and amber.

The students were caught in that queer, cheerful mood, high-spirited and raucous, the result of residual excitement from the previous week’s festivities and the effect of the gale combined. Segundus felt as if he was spending most of his lessons trying to keep the boys in their seats rather than teaching, and was glad when Mrs White rang the bell for dinner. The children ran screeching from the room, leaving Segundus to tidy up.

Another day he might have chided them, kept them in the classroom until everything had been returned to its proper order, but it was almost the last lesson of the week, and there was so little light left in the ever-shortening days that he could not begrudge them their excitement. In a way he was glad for it, for the few moments of peace and silence as he straightened chairs and put away books. Levy would already be in the dining room to settle the students down before the food was served; Segundus would not be needed for a few minutes.

He took a moment to look around the room. The storm that had churned his mind and his insides for the first weeks of term was settling, bit by bit, his legs becoming steadier as he adjusted to the waves and the tides of the school. Of _his_ school. He smiled a little to himself. He had known before, of course he had, but there was a difference between knowing a thing and believing it. He realised now, scanning the empty classroom and inhaling the chalk-and-ink smell of it, that it was his, and that it was good.

His smile still lingered as he crossed the hall towards the dining room. It was startled from his face when the front door blew open with a tremendous bang that made him fairly leap in surprize.

A large shadow filled the open frame like a bad omen. A moment later, the shadow stepped into the light of the hall and revealed itself to be a man, who removed his hat and revealed himself to be John Childermass, who let out a muttered oath and rushed around to shut the door behind him.

The wind had come in with him, and was toying with some loose papers and pieces of ribbon which had been left lying around the entrance hall. Segundus quickly stepped up to help him as the wind was not very amenable to being shut out again, as if it too wanted to be safe from the weather outside. It took a great deal of effort between them, but they managed to slam the door shut once more. They paused, backs to the door while they regained their breath.

“You have been honing your skill of making dramatic entrances, I see,” said Segundus, brushing the leaf dust from his clothing as he turned to smile at Childermass, his heart still pounding from shock and exertion. “Mrs Radcliffe would be proud.”

“I would hate to see you becoming too settled,” Childermass said, teeth glinting sharp in his smile, and pushed himself away from the door. “I have heard how schoolmasters can get.”

“Well,” Segundus said, leading him through to the dining room. “I thank you for your concern, but I fear I haven’t been in the occupation long enough for that.” He smiled over his shoulder at Childermass. “But it is always a pleasure to see you, sir. I am glad you have come; you are just in time for dinner. Is Vinculus with you?”

Childermass laughed. “Yes and no. He begged to be left at Malton for the evening. He has put up with a lot these last few weeks, so I thought it would do no harm. He will arrive tomorrow.”

“Oh, do you think it is wise to-”

“I have paid for the room and put half a crown behind the bar. I have instructed the barman that at least thru’pence is reserved for food, and to stop serving him once the rest has run out.” He shrugged. “Of course, he may well convince others to buy more for him, but I have done what I can. Myself, I am as glad for an evening apart as he is.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Segundus. “But I am afraid that you will find little tranquillity here.” He opened the door to the dining room, and the wall of noise created by a dozen boys dining together hit them like a solid object. He offered Childermass a wry smile and gestured him in.

The boys were pleased to be introduced to Childermass, to hear of his travels and the magic he had done and seen. Soon Childermass was the focus of the attention of the dozen boys as he spoke of the adventures he had been on – his dealings with the various magical societies he and Vinculus were visiting; the singular magics that were being discovered by the coast at Boscastle; the expeditions out onto fairy roads; and, least thrillingly, the passing on of warm greetings from Mrs Lennox, whom they had visited in Bath.

The discussion lasted long after the empty plates had been cleared away, and turned into something of a lecture: the students all sat with more attention than they had all day, so Segundus decided not to interfere, not to call them to their evening studies in the library. He did not mention this decision aloud, as he knew instinctively that it would have broken the spell Childermass was weaving with his voice (the same magic that had held the York magicians in thrall), so he just sat back and let the magic work on him, too: low and rich and enveloping. And truly, Segundus was as interested to hear his tales as the students, was glad for the opportunity to sit and listen to Childermass, to watch him captivate his audience and be captivated in turn. When Mr Levy caught his eye, he merely shook his head, and the young gentleman caught his meaning and relaxed in his chair to listen along with the boys.

The spell was broken when the maid entered to shut the curtains and light the candles against the dark night. They had missed the sunset, all eyes focused on Childermass as they had been.

“I have kept you from your lessons!” Childermass laughed. He shot an apologetic look at Segundus, who smiled and shook his head.

“On the contrary,” he said, standing. “I am sure we can all agree that you have been more educational than I today. As you can see, we are rather short-handed. The young gentlemen have been invited to Mr Fothergill’s school to see how things are done there.” He turned a smile on the one young gentleman who remained. “Mr Levy kindly postponed his own invitation so as not to leave me single handed.”

Segundus dismissed the students and they filed out, each with a, “ _Thank you, Mr Childermass_ ”. Segundus had to physically usher Edward Flint from the room when he asked Childermass one last question after another, hardly allowing him time to answer in his excitement.

“Mr Childermass will be here tomorrow to answer you, Edward,” Segundus said, biting down on his smile. “Now give him the chance of a breath!”

The boy ducked out of the room, blushing, and rushed to catch up with his friends.

Levy got to his feet. “Mr Segundus, I will supervise the boys in the common room and see them to bed,” he said. “I know you and Mr Childermass must have business to discuss.”

Segundus looked to the young man in surprize. “Mr Levy!” he cried. “That is very kind.” He tried to think of a _but_ , of some way to avoid putting his personal wishes above the needs of the school, but he knew Levy was more than capable of looking after the students for a few hours, and the promise of a quiet conversation with Childermass by the library fire was too tempting to refuse. He instead settled for, “Thank you,” and smiled as Levy bid them good evening.

“I am sorry,” Segundus said, taking the chair beside Childermass. “You would probably have preferred to wash and change after your journey, rather than be tricked into teaching a lesson.”

“I do not mind,” said Childermass, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes with a deep sigh. “Although I might excuse myself now, if you don’t object.”

“Of course not!” Segundus cried. “I shall send Charles to your room with some hot water and towels.” Charles happened to enter the room just then, and caught Segundus’ eye. He left again with a nod. “The school day is over, so I will be in the library if you’d care to join me when you’re ready. I would be glad of the company, if that is agreeable to you. Do not feel obliged if you would rather rest, however!”

“Of course.” Childermass gave a small, tired smile. “And I would not worry, Mr Segundus. You have a particular way of never making a man feel obliged.” He stood and took his leave. Segundus looked through the door for some moments after he had gone, his teeth in his lip, before shaking himself and retiring to the library.

Segundus spent some time wandering the room and lighting the candles – more than needed, really, but the way they reflected against the dark glass in the windows and in the great mantelpiece mirror settled the restlessness in him, and he tried to shut out the little voice in his mind that accused him of wastefulness. When he had lit all he could light, he sat with the newest _Friends of English Magic_ , the first volume published since Norrell’s disappearance and delivered only that morning. He was intrigued to see how the Norrellite cause would be put forward in such a changed England – had in fact been looking forward to the reading of it all day – but now found he couldn’t settle to it. His eyes slid off the words and took nothing in as they returned again and again to watch the door. He chewed at his lip, found himself staring into the fire as he turned over and over what had so nearly been said that night at the Society.

Would Childermass come? His journey had been long, and in such a gale; Segundus could not possibly deny him an evening of rest in his room after such a day – he must have been up well before the sun to make it from Pontefract as he had. Time wore on, and Segundus allowed himself to relax, deciding that Childermass had opted for a well-deserved rest rather than an evening in the library. The breath in his chest released itself, and his eyes caught once more on the words on the paper before him. He was disappointed to miss out on his company, but knew there would be tomorrow, perhaps the days following.

Almost two hours after dinner, the door opened and Childermass entered looking less ragged. This time the door opened softly and silently, but despite the lack of a slam and the bustle of invading leaves, Segundus once more felt his breath catch and his heartbeat quicken. The strangeness of the day had infected him as well as his students, it seemed, as he found his fingers suddenly restless around his pencil. He looked up from his reading with a smile, which Childermass returned in his usual way.

“Do not let me disturb you,” Childermass said, his voice low. “But do you have the latest _Modern Magician_?”

“I have it here, in fact,” said Segundus, and reached to the table beside him for the journal. It was one of several magical periodicals which had sprung up in the last six months, and by his opinion one of the better ones. He handed it to Childermass. “You must let me know your thoughts,” he told him, breathing in the sweet tobacco and fresh air scent of him. Childermass’ fingers brushed against his as he took the journal, and Segundus hoped he hadn’t noticed his shiver. “I rather rate it,” he finished, rather more quietly than he had begun.

“You will have them as soon as they are formed,” Childermass replied, his wry smile twisting on his lips. “And more, no doubt.”

Segundus would always be astonished at how much difference there was sitting in silence with another to sitting in silence alone. They each sat at their own readings, but the occasional sigh or rustle of a page turning from Childermass’ direction made something warm and soft grow to fill the room. Despite everything crowding in his breast, the things he needed to discuss, they were quieted by the weary sound of Childermass’ breath, the tiredness beneath his eyes. The strange urgency that had pushed Segundus to Mrs Sorsby so recently was still there, clinging to his breastbone, but it had eased its grip, happy for now at the mere comfort of Childermass’ presence, unwilling to cause any unnecessary tension in the relaxed lines of his posture or any tightness in his jaw. They had sat like this so often that such a conversation almost felt unnecessary.

“This article of Portishead’s,” Childermass said after some time, a soft rumble that Segundus almost didn’t catch over the wind outside. “He seems to be finding his own opinions once more.”

“I thought so,” Segundus agreed, looking at him across the fire. “Although his theories about the rain’s effects on non-meteorological magic beg further thought.”

Childermass gave a long nod, glancing up from the page with a joke in his eyes. “I’m not sure I agree with his claims that gazebos should be erected around the country to stabilise conditions for magicians. I have found that magic cares very little for the comfort of the magician.”

Segundus laughed at that, a small surprized sound. Childermass caught his eye, looking pleased with himself. He looked away when Charles came in with brandy and glasses; Segundus assured Charles that they would need nothing else, and that he may retire.

“I cannot believe the hour,” remarked Segundus, as he heard the clock in the hall strike ten.

“Hmm,” murmured Childermass, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of his brandy. “Pleasant company is known to have that effect.”

“You are sure of yourself, sir,” Segundus joked, and Childermass caught his eye with a smile that felt like it was letting him in on a secret.

“I am just glad to have a comfortable chair and a warm fire,” he answered, his eyes heavy-lidded as he nodded towards Segundus. “And the company of a good friend, of course.” He sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him, then took a sip of brandy. “I fear I am getting old, John. I never used to dream of chairs so.” He chuckled, a low rumble that seemed to fill Segundus’ chest, and took another sip.

“Well,” said Segundus. “I am glad we can furnish you with such comforts, and some small relief.”

Childermass raised his glass towards him in a leisurely toast, and they both drank. The brandy warmed Segundus from the inside, burning down his throat and tingling out to his limbs. He watched as Childermass settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, the whole line of him weary. He schooled the itch in his hands to reach out and smooth the hair from Childermass’ face.

“How long have you been on the road?” He asked, voice quiet, keeping his concerned eyes on Childermass.

“There’s no need to look at me like that, John,” Childermass said, his eyes still closed and his mouth curling in a lopsided smile. He cracked an eye open and laughed a little to see himself vindicated. Segundus tried to frown at him, but could not help the fondness blooming in him from showing through. “I’m well enough.”

“It doesn’t seem as though you will need Sutton-Grove tonight,” Segundus said, and received a surprized laugh in response.

“No, indeed.” Childermass laughed again, and rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck.

Segundus felt the strange energy of the day seeping from him, his own blinks growing longer as he stifled a yawn. He left for bed when he had finished his glass, and told Childermass not to stay up too late. Childermass replied that he planned to retire when he had finished with Hadley-Bright’s dissection of Chaston, and picked up _The Modern Magician_ from where he had discarded it when the brandy had been brought in.

The wind still wailed through the branches of the autumn trees as Segundus wound his way towards his room by the light of his candle. He paused as he passed the staircase to the student dormitories but heard no suspicious noises, and continued on to his room. With a sigh he started to untie his neckcloth, the wind still rattling at the windows and tugging at the flames in the fireplace. He felt itchy, the restlessness that had left him in the library returning full force. He folded his neckcloth and laid it over the back of a chair, covered it with his jacket, then started on his waistcoat buttons.

Halfway down his waistcoat he came to his senses, his heart finally overruling his routine. How ridiculous! Just over a week ago he had come to a decision. Was he to turn his back on that now? And for what? The excuse of a "tomorrow" which would allow them no more privacy than they had enjoyed this evening? He paused, his hand against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his own breathing, but beside that was almost a phantom, the ghost of a touch long imagined.

He cursed himself and took up his candle, striding back to the library before he could talk himself out of it, hoping he had not missed his chance.

Childermass was no longer reading, but stood leaning against the fireplace, bracing against the mantelpiece and staring into the flames as he drew on his pipe. His brows were drawn together, and he looked severe lit from below by the fire. The light in the library had died bit by bit with the candles.

“Oh!” Segundus exclaimed, a little startled by the sight of him. He had, he realised, expected Childermass to have gone to bed. Perhaps he had hoped it, to give himself more time to think. Childermass looked at Segundus in the doorway, lowering his pipe and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around his face so that Segundus had the feeling he was watching a dragon sizing up its next meal.

Childermass said nothing, only stood watching him, the firelight flickering over his face rendering him as inscrutable as ever, his eyes dark and impenetrable. At length, Segundus walked over. Childermass held something out, turning from the fire, but Segundus was unable to draw his eyes from the man’s face in order to see what it was.

“I believe this is what you are looking for.” His voice was quiet, a question in it that had nothing to do with the volume in his hand. It took Segundus a great deal of effort to look down, away from Childermass’ eyes; it was the latest issue of _The Friends of English Magic_ , the one that Segundus had been reading. He felt quite unable to move. He saw the offer for what it was: an opportunity to step back from the moment before them. The air felt like that before a storm, electric and promising, and something in his chest was swelling in anticipation of lightning, leaving no space for his lungs.

“No,” Segundus said. His heart stopped for a beat, pausing as if taking a moment to prepare itself. He reached forward and took the warm bowl of Childermass’ pipe in his hand, drew it away from Childermass’ lips. He heard something like the breath catching in Childermass’ throat.

The lightning struck.

In the space of a moment, the pipe slipped from Segundus’ hand onto the hearth, the journal fluttering to the floor as Childermass grasped Segundus’ upper arms in a firm hold.

“Enough of this,” Childermass said lowly, his voice rough as a millstone. Segundus looked up and was surprized to see something akin to desperation in his eyes as they flickered over Segundus’ face. “Enough of this damned dancing around each other.”

Still neither of them moved. Segundus felt quite paralysed, caught in Childermass’ arms so. He had imagined this, oh, he had imagined it often, yet the reality of it shook those imaginings apart. His breath came shallowly around his heart, which was quite firmly lodged, racing, in his throat. Childermass’ hands were hot through his shirt sleeves, his fingers digging in tightly, urgently.

“John,” Segundus managed to breathe the name, barely hearing himself over the blood thundering in his ears. He touched his fingers to Childermass’ jaw, and that touch seemed to shock them both into motion once more. In a moment Childermass’ mouth was against his in a crushing kiss, and Segundus’ hands were in Childermass’ long ragged hair. “John,” he said again, this time against Childermass’ lips.

It was a ferocious thing, as if they had been swept up in the wind outside and become part of it. Segundus was aware of his back hitting the wall, but the heat of Childermass against him (finally, _finally_ ), the press of his lips against Segundus’ mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, made the sensation dim in comparison. Childermass breathed his name against his skin, hot and damp and enough to make him shiver. The pressure of Childermass against him, the heat and the solidity of him, did more to unravel him than he could have predicted. He pulled Childermass’ mouth back to his, to kiss and bite at his lips as he had wanted to for so long, tasting smoke and brandy. Childermass’ hair was soft between his fingers, and the sounds he made when Segundus clutched it tighter sent tremors through him. He had wanted to speak, some small part of his mind whispered, but, oh, this was so much more to the point than talking, there would be plenty of time for that, but _this…!_

They were pressed so close that Segundus could feel the beat of Childermass’ heart against his chest and the growing hardness of him against his hip. The thought of it made him gasp, stealing the breath from Childermass’ lungs. Childermass pushed even closer to him, wedging a thigh between Segundus’ legs that put such exquisite pressure against that most sensitive part of him that he had to drop his head back against the bookcase and release the low moan that had been building in him.

“Yes,” Childermass said, hoarse and wild-eyed as he watched Segundus. For his part, Segundus hooked his knee around Childermass’ hip, pulling him closer still. Blasphemy tore from Childermass’ throat as their pricks came together through the fabric of their breeches, and he buried his face in Segundus’ shoulder as their hips rocked against each other.

“I would… I mean that…” But Segundus’ thoughts were in such disarray that he could not latch on to what he had meant, so instead he slipped his hands down to take a firm hold of Childermass’ rear and breathed his name. This earned him a low, animalistic growl which sent another pulse of blood to his prick.

“I have felt as if we were in a country dance,” Childermass said, his voice as ragged as his hair, his face pressed to the space behind Segundus’ ear as they rocked together, his wet lips and rough jaw thrilling at Segundus’ throat. “Coming close before being borne away by… by business or… propriety.”

“Oh,” gasped Segundus, “I no longer give a damn about propriety,” his fingers digging into Childermass’ shoulders as teeth nipped at his neck. He had had reservations about this, he was sure, but he couldn’t seem to bring them to mind currently. “And curse business.”

Childermass chuckled, a rumbling sound that Segundus felt through his chest, and pulled back a little to look at him. A smile was working its way up the side of his face; Segundus pushed forward to kiss it.

“Not as pretty as your usual words,” Childermass said against his mouth, and Segundus felt the sharp edge of that smile catch in his lip. “But I like them.” He kissed Segundus again, hot and wet with the slide of tongue. Segundus could not help the moan that escaped him then, and sunk his teeth into Childermass’ lower lip to feel him shiver.

“I have prettier,” said Segundus, feeling emboldened by the taste of Childermass’ tongue. He pulled back just a little, just far enough to see Childermass’ expression. “Come to bed.” His hands fisted in Childermass’ lapels, and he felt the hitch of his breath. Childermass’ waistcoat was open, and although Segundus would have sworn it was buttoned when he entered the room, he had no recollection of it being undone.

“Aye,” said Childermass, though it was little more than a release of breath in the approximate shape of the vowels. His dark eyes shone like beacons in the firelight. “Aye,” he said again, “I like those,” and pushed close for another clashing kiss.

When he stepped back, Segundus felt cold from the lack of him. They each stood for a moment, collecting their breath and their senses. Segundus picked up his candle and led the way into the corridor. He crept along, Childermass close behind him, feeling giddy as a schoolboy. He froze at every squeak, every too-heavy footstep, to listen for any response from the rest of the household. It was past twelve, the mournful tolling of the clock in the entrance hall below told him, and everyone else was asleep.

He ushered Childermass into his room, then shut and locked the door as quietly as he was able, only turning when he was sure it was secure. The sight that befell him when he turned took his breath away.

Childermass had removed his jacket and waistcoat entirely and hung them over the back of the chair. He had removed his shoes, and set them neatly beside the chair, beside Segundus’ own. He now stood by the bed, his shoulder propping up the bedpost while he regarded Segundus with a heavy gaze, one that Segundus realised he had grown quite used to seeing.

“This will change a great many things,” Segundus told him, setting his candle on the bedside table.

“Not so many,” Childermass countered in a voice more gentle than his usual tone. He reached out a hand and Segundus went to him.

“We shall have to be careful,” Segundus said, shivering as Childermass pulled his shirt from his breeches and slid his hands over the skin of his waist, the small of his back.

“I am always careful.” His hands were cool and rough, and Segundus’ breath stuttered at the feel of them on his own flushed skin.

“But then, it has never done me much good,” he sighed, and brought his hand to Childermass’ rough cheek, gazing in amazement as Childermass turned his face into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “Being careful of you.”

“Have I been such a nuisance?” Childermass’ eyes were dark and hooded, shining with something like amusement.

“Oh, yes,” Segundus laughed. “Most vexing.” He traced the shape of Childermass’ ear with his thumb. The shudder he got in response felt like a reward. “It has been most inconvenient, having you work your way into even my simplest thoughts, making me miss you when you are not here.”

“And what of your thoughts now? How am I vexing you now?” He caught hold of Segundus’ wrist, his thumb rubbing lightly over the flutter of pulse there, and brought Segundus’ fingers to his mouth.

Segundus’ blood was already liquid fire, his pulse heavy between his legs, but Childermass’ words and the intensity of his gaze stirred him to a new heat. The flicker of Childermass’ tongue against his fingertips, the scrape of his teeth, drew from him a less than dignified sound.

Too soon the grip on his wrist was gone. Childermass’ hands came to his arms once more and pulled him closer before sliding down to hold his elbows with a gentleness opposite to the urgency of the library, and then his nose was pressed to Segundus’ temple. His chest pressed against Segundus’ as he inhaled deeply, his breath shaking a little. It was all the encouragement Segundus needed to slip his hands up under Childermass’ shirt, to feel the warmth of his skin and the hard curve of his ribs beneath.

With his veins on fire with want as they were, it was a quiet moment that Segundus felt he should perhaps have been frustrated by, but he found himself glad for the time to collect his wits, to soak in the feel of Childermass’ embrace, his breath at his hairline. He was content to stand quietly and feel his warmth. He quivered with the intimacy of it: of Childermass’ chest against his through only the linen of their shirts, Childermass’ rough cheek resting against his own, Childermass’ hands sliding from his arms to lay flat against his back to pull him even closer. He could not remember when he had last been so close to another, had last been touched so deliberately, had last been held. It was an embrace that felt like a promise, and Segundus leaned into it, pressed his face to the crook of Childermass’ neck and breathed in the scent of him.

“If you knew how…” But Childermass trailed off, Segundus never to hear what he didn’t know.

He wanted to ask Childermass to finish his statement, but found himself instead saying, no small amount of desperation in his voice, “Kiss me.”

Childermass did. His hands removed from Segundus’ back and cradled his face, his thumbs brushing against the hair at his temples as he kissed Segundus thoroughly. The kiss quickly grew teeth, Childermass’ gentle touch at his temples turning to fingers scratching deliciously against his scalp as he licked into his mouth in a way that made his knees weak.

Nearly tripping over his own feet as he went, Segundus manoeuvred them the couple of feet to the edge of the bed. Childermass fell to it in surprize, the mattress having hit against the backs of his knees. Segundus took the opportunity to pull the shirt over his own head, and was glad that Childermass mirrored him in the action. He took a moment to look at the long, lean line of Childermass stretched out before him – his wiry chest and the dark hair scattered sparsely upon it which caught the light of the fire, his narrow hips disappearing below the waist of his breeches, the unmistakable shape of his excitement pressing against the falls.

“Oh, John,” said Segundus, and descended upon him.

Childermass’ hands clutched at his back as they kissed, slipped to his hair as Segundus placed his lips on the newly exposed skin before him. He tasted Childermass’ neck, his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest. He kissed the round scar on his shoulder, dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of his neck. Experimentally, he took a nipple into his mouth and neatly catalogued the response he got – a choked gasp and an arching of the back – as positive, as something to be explored further. He turned his ministrations to the other nipple, while teasing the first with his fingers. The noises Childermass made at these touches were electric, his hips jerking to leave no doubt of his enjoyment, and sent thrills through Segundus just to hear them, to feel the friction of Childermass’ hips against his belly.

These reactions were so wonderful (in Segundus’ mind) that he kept at it for some time, switching sides to give each of Childermass’ nipples equal attention. He kept at it, in fact, until Childermass tightened his hands painfully in Segundus’ hair and moaned out, “You’ll kill me, John.”

Segundus tore himself away and looked up at Childermass’ face, found him flushed and panting, his lips bitten red. Keeping his eyes on Childermass, he placed one last kiss on his sternum (a hitch of breath, a cut-off moan) and continued on his way down. By the time he reached the waist of Childermass’ breeches his hands were shaking, so he was rather slow in undoing the buttons. Childermass could not seem to keep his own hands still: first they clutched in Segundus’ hair, sending sparks down his spine as they tugged, then they would dance down his neck, over his shoulders, grasp at the bedclothes, then return to his hair and start the cycle over again.

Finally, he unfastened Childermass’ breeches and sat back first to admire him, his prick standing dark and proud from the folds of fabric, then to tug them off, taking his stockings with them. Childermass propped himself up on his elbows to watch, his cheeks and chest flushed. Segundus caught his eye, held it for a moment, and then ducked back down to tongue gently, experimentally, at the head of him. Childermass’ groan seemed to come from somewhere deep within him, pulled slowly out by the touch of Segundus’ tongue. The tip leaked the precursor to his seed, and as the salty bitterness of him made Segundus’ mouth water, he was all of a sudden aware of how long it had been since he had last tasted another man’s seed, of how long he could have been doing this with Childermass if it hadn’t been for his own damned cowardice and inaction. He took a deep breath to steady himself, to calm his racing heart and mind. He looked up at Childermass, stretched out beneath him, propped up on his elbows to watch with his impossibly dark eyes.

Segundus kept that dark gaze as he lowered his head, let out a moan of his own as he took Childermass into his mouth. Childermass gasped his name, low and rough, and dug his nails into the sheets as he slumped back to the bed. Segundus closed his eyes in pleasure at the texture of him on his tongue, the heat of him, the musky scent of him filling his nostrils. How often had he let himself imagine this in the dark of the night? And yet his imaginings had been nothing like this, had never included the delicious pressure of Childermass’ heel at the small of his back, or the way Childermass’ voice caught on his name as if it were being dredged up from some deep, hidden place.

Too soon, Childermass’ hands tightened in his hair and pulled him back and away, up, up Childermass’ body.

“Come here, come here.” The words were hoarse and a little slurred. Segundus let himself be pulled up for another kiss, hot and wet and wondrous, filled with Childermass’ moan. “Get those off.”

A chuckle rumbled from Childermass’ chest, and Segundus smiled down at him. He sat up and undid his breeches, stepped off the bed to slide the clothing from his hips and step out of his stockings. He moved more hurriedly than gracefully, but was too far gone to be embarrassed at his own stumbling despite the weight of Childermass’ gaze on him.

Childermass sat up on the bed and watched, his dark eyes roaming every part of Segundus now exposed, and although he felt his cheeks colouring at the inspection, he let himself be looked at until Childermass said, “John,” like a sigh and held his hand out to him. He took it, twining their fingers together, and let Childermass pull him onto the bed, onto his lap.

Rough fingers danced over his ribs, bringing goose pimples to his skin. Hands landed on his hips, pulling him forward until they were pressed together, then travelled back to squeeze his rear in a tight grip. Segundus gasped, his head tilting back, and Childermass took advantage of his exposed neck to fasten his teeth there. There was so much hot skin against him, Childermass’ chest against his own, Childermass’ back under the flat of his hands, their cocks pressed so sweetly together between their bodies, that Segundus couldn’t help the rock of his hips. He had wanted this, oh, he had wanted this for so long he could not now remember when it had started.

“If you knew,” Childermass panted again, his hands kneading Segundus’ buttocks over and over until he was trembling. “If you knew how long I have wanted you,” he sucked hard at Segundus’ collarbone, “I do not think you would have me.”

Segundus took his jaw in hand and tilted him up for a kiss. “I will have you even when you speak nonsense,” he admonished, and pushed Childermass onto his back with the weight of his body.

Childermass laughed and brought his arms around Segundus’ shoulders, rolling over so that they were lying face to face. Childermass reached between them, taking them both in hand.

“Yes,” Segundus whispered, his eyes closing as he felt Childermass against him, hot and hard and still wet from his own mouth. He hiked his knee further up Childermass’ hip and tried to bring them closer. “Yes,” as Childermass’ free hand grasped at his rear again, guiding the pace as they thrust together.

It was all too much after too long. The scent of Childermass’ fresh-sweat skin, the rasp of stubble against his neck, the low, throaty encouragements he felt as well as heard. His whole body was flushed with it, the memory of Childermass’ seed lingering on his tongue, and he spent before he knew what was happening, like a door slamming open, and he stifled his shout in Childermass’ neck.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “I’m sorry, I-” Childermass cut him off with hard kiss, his hand coming up to clutch at his hair.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, “Don’t you dare apologise.” The words came from his mouth with a stutter as he kept thrusting against Segundus’ hip, slippery now with his release. The feel of it, of Childermass desperately seeking his pleasure against him, made his body echo with his own crisis. “ _Christ_ ,” Childermass groaned, and Segundus kissed him, pulled him over so that Childermass was on top of him, bit his lip and licked it better with his tongue. He slipped his own hand down to join with Childermass’; that did it, as Childermass let out a raw groan as he spent hot and wet between them.

For some time, Segundus was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. He was aware of the heat and weight of Childermass atop him, of their breaths becoming less laboured, of Childermass’ fingers stroking up and down his sides restlessly, but it all felt as if it was happening beyond a sheet of muslin, hazy. He opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at Childermass, who was looking at him with a curious expression.

“You’re going grey,” Childermass said, his voice little more than a rumble. Segundus hid his face against his chest.

“I should have guessed that you would have such fine pillow talk.” He pressed a short kiss to Childermass’ chest, partly to shew that he was not truly upset, partly because he could not help himself.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Childermass chastised, his fingers threading through Segundus’ hair. “I had not noticed before, but I like it.” He pressed his lips against Segundus’ temple, let them linger a moment. “It lends you a dignified air.”

Segundus could only let out a breath of a laugh at that, tilting his head up to capture Childermass’ lips once more. It was a long, slow open-mouthed kiss that merged into the next, and the next, punctuated with lazy slides of tongue. It was a kiss that warmed him from the inside – not the blaze Childermass had started earlier, but something gentler, more sustainable. Something comforting that was nothing quite like what he had expected.

“I suppose we will have to move,” Segundus sighed after some time, raising his head.

“Aye,” Childermass agreed. “But not quite yet.”

They lay quietly for a time, the silence warmed by small kisses and touches. Segundus had denied himself this for so long, and at this moment he could not for the life of him think why. He felt more at peace than he had in years, listening to Childermass’ heart beat slow and strong against his ear, kissing him whenever he felt the urge.

At last he sat up, feeling the cold of the autumn night nipping at his skin. He went to the basin on his wash table and wiped himself clean with the cloth, feeling Childermass’ eyes on him. He felt he should be embarrassed to be watched when he was so naked, but he did not. He rinsed the cloth, and carried it over to the bed to take the same care of Childermass.

He watched as the muscles of Childermass’ abdomen twitched at the touch of the cool, damp cloth. He wiped slowly, carefully; he licked his lips absently as their mingled seed was washed from Childermass’ skin, now shining pale with water. He felt his heart skip a little at the thought and the sight, looked up at Childermass’ face and saw his dark, hooded eyes intent on him.

Standing with as much composure as he could muster, he returned the cloth to the basin. When he turned around, Childermass had moved up the bed and pulled the covers back, slotting himself in invitingly. Segundus slipped in beside him and wrapped him in his arms as the sheets were pulled up around him.

Had he been a younger man, he would have pressed himself against Childermass and kissed him until they were both eager once more, but he could see the weariness in Childermass’ face and remembered his long journey, and could feel sleep tugging at his own eyelids. Instead, he pressed a kiss to Childermass’ forehead, to his nose, to his lips.

“I’m glad my loss of patience was not unwelcome,” Childermass murmured against his temple, his hand settling on Segundus’ side while his thumb drew absent circles.

“I am happy for it,” he replied, pushing the hair back from Childermass’ face to better see him in the flickering light of the dying fire. “I have thought of it often, these last months,” he admitted, pressing his face into Childermass’ neck and breathing him in. “I had wondered,” Segundus said, voice slow as his lips bumped against Childermass’, “if you would be too tired after your journey. It sounded a long one.”

“Oh,” Childermass said, wrapping an arm around Segundus’ waist, pulling him close. “It was not as long as that. Not to keep me from the pleasure of your company.”

“Ah, more pretty words, I see.” Segundus snorted. “You came for my conversation. I am sorry to have kept you from it.”

Childermass laughed, loose and easy, and Segundus felt something within him unspool.

“I’d have your conversation now, sir, if you’re of a mind.” His eyes sparkled wickedly in the candlelight.

“I doubt I’d be much of a partner for it now,” Segundus laughed, and kissed the corner of Childermass’ mouth where his smile hid. “You have quite ruined me for anything but sleep tonight.”

The smile Childermass gave now was wolfish, and he pulled Segundus closer still. “I will shew you what I can ruin you for tomorrow, when I have not been riding for a week.”

“Then you had best sleep now,” Segundus said, nudging Childermass’ nose with his own. “So tomorrow I might have your conversation, and you might have the _pleasure of my company_.” He ducked his head to hide his yawn in Childermass’ neck, turned it into a soft kiss.

He raised his head in time to see the curious expression on Childermass’ face. He brought his hand to Childermass’ tired face, stroked his thumb across his cheekbone, and kissed him again, soft and chaste. Absently, he wondered if he would ever be able to stop touching him, now he had started.

“You are tired,” he said, and smiled as Childermass rolled his eyes. “Sleep. We can discuss things in the morning.”

“Yes.” He felt the sharp exhale of Childermass’ laugh, and gentle fingers in his hair. “I am curious to hear why you decided to visit my sister in the midst of a tempest.”

Segundus groaned and pressed his face to Childermass’ chest, but was unable to hold back his laugh. “Not tonight,” he pleaded. “Perhaps tomorrow.” He raised his head to look at Childermass, was taken aback by the fondness in his gaze.

“Alright.” Childermass laughed, pushing his hand through Segundus’ hair. “Tomorrow. Goodnight, then, John,” he said, pressing his lips to Segundus’ cheek.

He caught Childermass’ hand in his, held it between their chests and linked their fingers.

“Goodnight, John.”


	11. december 1817

There was a curious song that was sung in the North near Christmas.

Segundus had first heard it that first winter he had spent in York, bright and alert with the possibility of it all – the magic of the North spread out before him, the air cold and invigorating against his skin.

One night in mid-December he had been walking home past the cathedral, craning his neck up in an attempt to see where the dizzying towers met the black of the starless night and found himself unable to. Just as he looked back to earth with a sigh, he heard the rustle of a great group of people, then a long mournful note sung by a single man. That note had stopped Segundus in his tracks, despite his previous hurry to get home as the cold seeped closer to his bones through his thin coat. The hair at the back of his neck had shivered and risen as more voices joined that first, as the bleak harmony dissolved into words he could not quite make out, but he had stood still, arrested, staring wide-eyed at the group of wassailers standing outside the minster doors. The song had ended, the spell had broken, and he had dropped the few small coins in his purse into the hat before them before hastening home.

In the years since – more than ten, now, he could hardly believe – he had heard the song many times, had tracked down the lyrics and the title (although both seemed to change depending on who he spoke to, or the area of the North he was visiting). It was always sung in the dark, and, despite being sung outside churches in the season of Christ’s birth, seemed to have very little to do with Him or the Church at all.

After that first time, he had thought it would be a song like any other – it had, surely, been an accident of timing and a wild romantic moment on his own part that had given him such a visceral reaction to it.

The second time he heard it he had hardly been aware of it, drifting as it had through his window in Lady-Peckitt’s Yard from the street below. He had felt his skin prickle as he sat at his notes, and had risen to shut the window before realising it already was shut, and instead he had opened it and heard the voices, low and longing as a memory, had listened to it with the cold wind on his face and his eyes closed.

The third time, he heard it formally. It was by then his second winter in York, and he had been invited by Mr Honeyfoot to dinner. Segundus – although he had no memory now of how they had got onto the subject – had mentioned the curious song, and the oddities of it.

“Oh,” Mr Honeyfoot had said, “I suppose it is rather strange, when one comes to think on it.” And he had asked his daughter to give them the pleasure of performing for them.

It was a different beast when sung in the sweet high voice of Jane Honeyfoot in the tasteful drawing room, tamer – his skin did not itch in the same way – but it allowed him a closer inspection of the lyrics. He found that by the end of the young lady’s recital he was sitting forward to listen, his elbows on his knees, and Miss Honeyfoot’s cheeks were quite pink under his scrutiny. It had been an admirable performance, although Segundus found that he missed the rawness, the wildness of hearing it out of doors, pulling in the darkness. He had thanked Miss Honeyfoot and said goodnight to his friends, and now armed with the title of the song set himself to studying it.

He found record of it in old books and broadsides, found his way to doors and inns and took note of how it changed between the Ridings, caught hold of the solid, unchanging core of it and dug in his nails. He felt the shadow of it rise on the walls behind him, his guts twisting in a way he found hard to give up. It felt a little like falling in love.

His favourite version – they were all very similar, changing only in the odd word or two from parish to parish, perhaps a little variation in the tune – had come from an old woman who lived on the outskirts of Newcastle. She had been ancient even then, in the winter of 1809: thin white hair escaping her cap like wisps of smoke, face as lined and cracked as the limestone pavements of the moors, back and hands all bent in echoes of each other as she sat before the fire waiting for the kettle to boil. Her voice had been deep and dark, hoarse with the rough use of the years. When she had sung for him, he had sat entranced, the hairs on his arms and his neck lifting just as they had at the cathedral. She was not a talented singer, did not have a partner to achieve that melancholy harmony of the wassailers, but she sang as if by doing so she was tearing the song out of her very soul. He had visited with the aim of transcribing the song to take away and study alongside his other variations, but he had been so transfixed by this old, old woman – her eyes closed tight as she rocked herself with the almost primitive rhythm of it, lit only by the glow of the fire in the early December dark – that he had to ask her to take him through it another three times before he was sure he had it.

When written, it looked almost like a spell. The strange words and thick, flat vowels of the North made it sound foreign, indecipherable to Segundus’ southern ears and unsuited to the sharp sounds of his southern tongue when he tried to speak it aloud.

The song had become a reason to look forward to the winter: its re-emergence holding off the brunt of the sudden dark nights and the thick snow blowing in from the North Sea, although it was far from warm itself. It did not so much keep the dark out as invite it in, but it was an invitation that made the dark keep its teeth beneath its lips.

As the winter once more closed in, Segundus realised that now, an empty Starecross Hall was a far different creature from the empty Starecross Hall of six months ago, of a year ago.

The place had been so echoing with the noise and laughter of a dozen boys in the high spirits of youth, that now they were gone the school seemed to reverberate with quiet, a note so low one could only feel the vibrations of it. The silence seemed to make the place darker, sharper.

He began to feel… not _lonely –_ for he had Levy and Hadley-Bright (Purfois had returned home for the season), Charles and Davey and Lucas, Hannah and Dido, Mr Honeyfoot and other members of the Society to visit and be visited by, and Childermass and Vinculus were become permanent residents for the season (he most of all had Childermass’ still-novel private smiles and murmured words and the thrill of his kisses) and with these he could not be lonely – but the need for some merriment of the kind he had become used to, the pure easy laughter his students had given the house.

So, after some thought and discussion, Segundus sent out invitations to the villagers to join the household in celebration on Christmas Eve. He spent the days before with the servants, draping holly and ivy over the mantles and the banisters, the berries shining bright as a promise. The chatter and laughter as they decorated warmed Segundus to the soles of his feet, and even Mrs White’s threats ringing out from the kitchen after Vinculus held a cheerful note.

The guests made their way up to the house as the sun dipped below the hills, all wrapped up in hats and cloaks. There was to be a fine bright moon, and the turnout was greater than any had expected. It was as jolly a gathering as Segundus could have wished for – everyone assembled in Starecross’ large hall, taking turns at gossiping and tale-telling and snooping around as they warmed themselves at the enormous fire, taking their fill from the table laden with morsels, warming themselves from the inside with hot wine and brandy. He saw Mrs Sorsby reading palms, laughing with the maids while Ned ran and played with the village children. He watched as Childermass skirted the room speaking to young and old – dressed up in a suit which was not fashionable but was not worn and dusty from the road, one that Segundus had buttoned him into only hours earlier (with some difficulty given the murmured promises Childermass had spoken into his ear as he worked).

As he watched, he became aware of Hadley-Bright trying to attract his attention, and turned, hoping his flush could be explained by the heat of the room, to be asked if the young gentlemen could start their festive magic (“ _Vauxhall Gardens stuff,”_ Childermass had said as they had planned it, and laughed). Segundus advised a little more time to let the villagers settle in and warm themselves with food and drink, wary as some still were about magic. Hadley-Bright slouched off somewhat dejected to deliver the news to Levy, and Segundus turned back to the room to find two sets of dark eyes fixed on him. He watched as Childermass, without looking away from him, bent down to speak in Mrs Sorsby’s ear, and saw her sly smile unfurl.

He cleared his throat and hurried to the kitchen to interrogate Mrs White on when dinner might be served.

After dinner, some of the men from the village set themselves up in a corner of the hall with fiddles and whistles, playing tunes that set all toes to tapping until Charles finally pulled Dido to her feet. Soon, sets were forming all around the room, and all was a whirling blur as reel after jig was danced.

Segundus had attended balls thrown in large townhouses and assembly rooms (Mrs Lennox had pressured him into attending a few of these in Bath before realising he was of little use in such a setting), but had never much enjoyed them. This loose set up, however, made him smile, and he did not object too strongly when Mrs White seized him by the wrist and forced him onto the makeshift dancefloor, to a chorus of cheers from all present.

The dancing lasted until the clocks chimed eight, when the band stopped playing and made their way back to the refreshments. At this move, a girl from the village, after some jostling and giggling from her friends, stood in front of the fire and started to sing. The rest of the gathering joined in with the well-known words, and another girl took her place when the song was done. This carried on as more people stood to sing, certain performers being encouraged to more than one song by their friends and family.

Segundus was particularly pleased when, fortified with spiced honey wine, Childermass was pulled to his feet by a laughing Hannah to sing at the request of a number of the Hurtfew staff, Davey and Lucas chief amongst them.

“He has a fine voice, sir,” Davey had told Segundus the day before as they decorated the hall, “but only sings when he’s had a few. Not that he drinks, sir, no! That’s why it’s such a rare sight, you understand.” Davey had flushed to his hairline at his faux pas and slunk back out to the stable before Segundus could reply.

Now, in the cheerful light of fire and candles and the shimmering of dozens of glasses and tankards, Childermass stood (rather rosier in the cheeks than Segundus was used to seeing him) to sing a rather bawdy tune about servant girls and sailors.

He did indeed have a fine voice – perhaps not one that would have been welcome beside a polite harpsichord in a delicate drawing room, but low and rough and evocative, even carrying such a ribald song. It rumbled through Segundus the same way Childermass’ voice did at night, vibrating through his very bones, only now it seemed to first hit his breast, rather than his ear as when he lay against Childermass’ chest. Segundus found himself smiling openly with the surprise of it, the pleasure of it, and quickly tried to school his expression before anyone noticed. He need not have worried, as all attention was on Childermass.

The servants who had come to Starecross from Hurtfew watched with wide smiles, and the rest of the party was split between raucous laughter and scandalised gaping, particularly when Childermass winked at Hannah and sang, slapping his thigh, “ _never trust a sailor boy an inch above your knee!_ ”, which set the Hurtfew staff to roaring.

With an ironic bow, Childermass stepped away from the fire as a middle-aged woman from the village stepped up to take his place. He walked to the refreshment table to refill his glass, where Segundus happened to be standing.

“An interesting choice,” Segundus said to him, quietly, and Childermass’ eyes crinkled in a smile.

“It’s a favourite of Davey’s,” Childermass explained with the hint of a laugh, his elbow nestling in a twist of ivy on the banister as he brought his pipe to his mouth.

“Do you,” Segundus began, already knowing the answer and feeling his mouth dry in anticipation, “know _The King and the Snow_?”

The look Childermass turned on him was dark and slow, the sharp voice of Mrs Grose fading into the background as his eyes met Segundus’. He was quiet for a long moment, regarding Segundus with something unreadable in his gaze as he drew deeply from his pipe. He let the smoke out in a long, steady stream before speaking.

“What,” he asked, the corner of his mouth curling up and a glint appearing in his dark eyes, “would a fine southern gentleman like yourself know of a song like that?”

“I heard it when I first came to York,” Segundus explained, feeling his cheeks heating. “It became rather a focus of study for me, on an admittedly seasonal basis.” He told Childermass about the first time he had heard the song, the hunt he had gone on for it, the way it had seemed to call to him from somewhere beyond the snow, frost glinting in the light from some other sun. He wondered if he would have dared to say so much even six months ago; it felt like baring some soft, unguarded part of himself.

Throughout this explanation, Childermass stayed silent, drawing on his pipe while his eyes stayed fixed on Segundus with a peculiar intensity. Mrs Grose finished her song to polite applause and was followed by Hannah, unnoticed by either of them.

“Anyway,” Segundus finished, aware that he could not take much longer of Childermass looking at him in such a way, not when they were surrounded by so many people, not when he was supposed to be playing host. “It is a silly diversion, nothing serious. I should not have brought it up.”

Childermass just cocked an eyebrow at him and moved away, fetching himself some marchpane from further along the table and speaking quietly to Mr Twyman while Hannah sang, untrained but lovely; or perhaps lovely because she was untrained.

She finished to enthusiastic applause, gave a short bow, and scurried away. A cheer went up as Childermass took the space once more. He held up his hands, and the room fell to silence.

“This is a particular request from our generous host, Mr Segundus,” he said, his voice curling with good humour as he tilted his glass towards Segundus. There were a few scattered laughs and cheers, but they died quickly as Childermass stood straight and raised his chin. He looked directly at Segundus and began to sing.

Segundus had thought he had heard all the variations possible on the song. He had heard it sung by children on street corners, hats held out for coins. He had heard it sung by groups of men and women framed by the great arching doors of the cathedral. He had heard it sung in alehouses, in posting inns, by firesides in remote two-room cottages by men and women as ancient as the hills.

Hearing it in Childermass’ rough, low voice was like hearing it for the first time.

His skin shivered with the sound of it, goose-skin rippling up his arms even in the heat of the crowded room. His guts turned to liquid, swirled like molten gold and flowed into his veins. He heard the words clearly – dark and sinister, the description of a world he had thought was in the past. Now that they were being sung to him (and Childermass was singing _to_ him now, _for_ him, not really for any of the others assembled on this dark winter night) they were almost a promise.

The hall was silent as Childermass sang. The low buzz of conversation that had been present throughout the evening had vanished, soaked up by the captivating sound of Childermass’ voice. The only sound came on the second refrain, when an old man from the village stepped forward to join in – not with the words, just providing a quiet, keening note to layer with Childermass’ voice, pushing it into relief and making Segundus shiver and close his eyes.

It had been haunting enough in the centre of York – bright with fires and candles shining through a hundred windows; at Starecross it crept into his bones and seeped from the very stones of the house, crawled in from the moor.

He could see it behind his eyelids, the layers of the song: the King making a bargain with the snow, with the holly, with the robin redbreast and the encroaching dark. _I will give to you this season, the closest to my heart_ , the King said in Childermass’ voice, caressing the darkness with his hand and his words, and how like the darkness Childermass sounded, how deep and lingering, how scented with woodsmoke and stories and magic.

As Childermass finished to the applause from the crowd, Segundus stood in a daze. He found himself quite unable to move, caught as he was clutching his cup of hot wine between his hands, staring at Childermass in amazement.

“I hope that was to your satisfaction, sir,” Childermass said, low and close to his ear as he leaned past Segundus to reach for a slice of gingerbread.

Segundus was still struck dumb, and it took him a moment of blinking to come back to himself enough to answer. “It was beautiful,” he said, aware it was nowhere near sufficient. He coughed a little and turned away, just briefly, to collect himself. “Thank you.”

More than anything at that moment, he wished he could reach across and take Childermass’ hand in his own, press it between his palms and bring it to his lips. He felt as if he had been given the most wondrous gift, and anything he could say or do could not come close to being enough.

“I was surprized that you knew it,” Childermass said, seemingly unaware of the silent torment surging through Segundus. “I should not have been.” His eyes twinkled in the light of the roaring fire.

Segundus could say nothing, not the with the way he seemed to have grown three extra hearts which were now all clattering around in his breast and throat. He raised his cup of wine with both hands and took a sip that turned into a long swallow. Hands came to cover his and pull the cup away from him.

“Are you well, John?” Childermass asked lowly, the humour in his face transformed now into concern.

He _was_ well. He hadn’t felt better in a very long time, but had never felt so skinned and shivering and exposed before. But how could he explain it to Childermass? That a song had had such an effect on him, had wrapped around his heart and rooted it to this place, this moment, this man?

“Yes,” Segundus answered, aware of the tremor in his voice. “Just a little… overwhelmed.” He laughed a little, weakly, and smiled up at Childermass. The dark of his eyes seemed as deep as a midwinter night, and as sceptical.

“You’re trembling,” Childermass said, taking Segundus’ hands between his own. “And flushed.” Segundus looked around in fright lest anyone should see them, but realised Childermass had manoeuvred them into one of Starecross’ many unexpected side corridors, and felt the reassuring cloaking of Childermass’ shadows around his shoulders.

“To tell truth,” Segundus said, leaning into him a little more, seeking out that twining support. “I feel as though I have been near some powerful spell.”

“I have not felt any magic tonight.” Childermass frowned, pressed his palm to Segundus’ cheek.

“I think it is perhaps wild magic, of a sort.” Segundus covered Childermass’ hand with his own. “Your song, I think, has enchanted me.” He laughed a little, feeling lighter to have said it.

He leaned up and kissed Childermass, because there was nothing else he could do.

The shadows, he knew, were not infallible. If anyone felt Childermass’ magic, or happened to glance into the corner expecting to find something, they would be hidden by nothing more than the natural gloom. This no longer mattered. He felt the darkness that Childermass had enticed with his song swirling inside him, swimming up around them, screening them from the rest of the world.

He heard Childermass’ quiet grunt of surprize, heard the soft thud of his back hitting the wall, and pressed closer still.

“I do not,” he said, unable to remove his lips from Childermass’ even the barest inch to speak, “know how to thank you.”

“Mhmm,” Childermass hummed pleasantly into the kiss, sliding his hands to press against Segundus’ shoulders, pulling him closer. Segundus felt the restraint in him, the reluctance to slide his fingers into his hair as he loved to do, and it was this hesitance that pulled Segundus back to the present.

He kissed Childermass once, twice, weaned himself away but kept his hands on his face, his thumb stroking over the morning-smoothness of his cheek. Segundus had watched him shave that afternoon, stripped to the waist and contorting his face in such a way that fondness had bloomed within him. He pressed his lips to that smooth skin again now, pulled finally away with a smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and as Childermass leaned forward for one last kiss, there came a call of “Mr Segundus!” from nearby.

Segundus shivered as the shadows slipped away, and staggered out into the corridor and along to the hall. He was aware of Childermass stepping out and turning the other way, to loop around the other side of the staircase.

It was only a moment until Segundus bumped into Hadley-Bright a little too literally, and was too soon brought far too close to his animated eyes and hopeful young face. A moment later Levy’s face appeared over his shoulder, and Segundus was so suddenly under the impression of being watched by two spaniels at the dinner table that he couldn’t stop himself letting out a short laugh.

“Of course!” He cried, stepping back a little from their enthusiasm. “The magic! Very well, but remember-”

They were off down the corridor before he could finish, and as they turned the corner he heard the gleeful note of Jane Honeyfoot’s laughter as she too heard the news.

He made his way, still somewhat unsteady, back to the hall in time to see Hadley-Bright step in front of the fireplace to give his introduction (which was indeed full enough of theatricality to sound like something from Vauxhall Gardens).

As Jane Honeyfoot began singing, a song Segundus had heard rehearsed often in the past weeks but sounded even lovelier tonight, he made his way to the back of the hall to best admire the effect.

It had been mesmerising enough when the young gentlemen had practised, but with the hall full with happy and contented guests, the tables and windowsills lined with sparkling glasses and shining pewter, the room so decked in holly and ivy that it almost felt like a woodland brought indoors, the hundreds of tiny, glittering lights that the men coaxed from each candle, each reflection, each berry seemed to dazzle a thousand-fold. It was a warm magic, and with the usual cut-grass brightness of the young men’s magic it made the midwinter hall feel, to Segundus, like a midsummer meadow.

The lights rose and swooped, dancing to the sweet tune of Miss Honeyfoot’s song, sketching out the figures of the tale and the rhythm of the tune, and the room watched, entranced. The food, drink, and merrymaking had done their bit, and even the villagers Segundus knew to be wary gazed with as much wonder as the others.

The performance ended to rapturous applause, and the lights floated down and faded like pollen on a sunny spring afternoon. As they faded, Segundus felt the darkness creep back into the corners. It was smoky and toothless, like a tired old dog curling up before the fire, and Segundus felt some inner part of him reach out to run his fingers through its fur. It had been welcomed, and would do them no harm.

The festivities finished with a last round of dancing, which Segundus this time stayed out of, and as it approached midnight he stood by the fire and thanked their guests for coming, extended Starecross’ hospitality as an open invitation. The clocks interrupted him, chiming twelve, and he laughed, wished them all a merry Christmas as they embraced and kissed the cheeks of friends and neighbours.

The villagers trooped home as a unit, laughing and singing their way down the moon-lit road, and left Starecross feeling very quiet indeed.

After ordering everyone to bed (the tidying could be done in the morning, after all), Segundus spent some time in the empty hall. He collected the scattered glasses and tankards together, inhaled the lingering magic of merriment, caught his breath. From above he felt the creeping, warm-wild magic Childermass was quietly working, and he followed the trail of it to his own bedroom.

He was not surprised to find Childermass standing in front of the dark window and playing with the reflection of the candle flame. Segundus shut the door behind himself, locked it, and watched as, in the window’s reflection, light and dark played together like kittens. The sensation of it, gentle as it was, raised the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck as the sensation of Childermass’ magic always did. He felt each individual prickle, but stayed by the door, his eyes held by Childermass’ serious profile lit by that single flame, rendering him a Rembrandt come to life.

At length, Childermass lowered the candle and drew the curtains, covered the shaving mirror on the washstand, and turned to him.

It took only a few steps to cross the room, to take Childermass’ face in his hands and press his lips to his jaw. Expressing the extent of his gratitude was a longer process, one that Segundus was careful to do thoroughly.

When the candle had burnt down, the fire reduced to flickering embers, with Childermass wrapped around him breathing evenly in sleep, in the warmth of the embrace and the darkness of the room, Segundus felt the words spring to his sleepy, sated mind unbidden.

_I greet thee, Lord, and bid thee welcome to my heart._


	12. january 1818

The new day was still some time off when Segundus woke, the dawn even further.

There was a chill to the air, but behind the bedcurtains and beneath the blankets it was not enough to bother him, not with the solid warmth of Childermass pressed against his back.

It was Childermass who had woken him, or rather coaxed him to one side of the line of wakefulness he had been treading; coaxed with soft breath against his neck and gentle, wandering hands. Segundus smiled as he stretched a little, arching into those touches, pushing deliberately back against the hard line of Childermass’ cock and enjoying the quiet laugh Childermass puffed against his skin as he felt him wake.

Segundus was growing used to mornings like this, looked forward to them almost as keenly as he did the evenings that preceded them. Childermass would be leaving soon, taking up his travels once more, and Segundus was determined to make good use of the time they had. It appeared that Childermass was of a similar mind.

Turning, he caught Childermass’ lips in a drowsy kiss, finding his mouth in the dark with only a brief fumble against his cheek. A moment later his hand found its way to Childermass’ hair and then they were kissing with a slow sort of urgency, like travellers keen to reach their destination but determined to enjoy all the pleasures and views the journey offered.

The chill bothered him less and less as Childermass pressed him back into the mattress, leaning the whole solid weight of his body into every inch of Segundus’, Segundus each moment flushing more deeply at the pleasure of it, of Childermass’ mouth and hands and, _oh_ , the slow push and drag of his hips even with their nightshirts between them.

The remnants of the spell for silence Segundus had cast earlier still clung to the room, he could feel it in the form of dried and wilting roses just holding on around the curtains, could just smell their dusty scent. It was too late to refresh it – the servants would be awake and busy soon and the silence would become suspicious – but he could be quiet in these slow, easy pre-dawn hours. He could be quiet as Childermass worked his way down, pulling the covers with him as he pushed Segundus’ nightshirt up until his mouth met his hands and kept moving down until he reached his destination. He could keep himself to gasps and heavy breaths and murmured pleas even as Childermass took him in his mouth, hot against the cold January air that made his exposed skin prickle with gooseflesh.

Even then, Childermass’ hands and mouth wandered so often he did not have the chance to grow cold: rough palms smoothing over his thighs, fingers digging into his hips, dragging over his waist, that hot, wet mouth trailing to suck a vivid bruise by the side of his navel ( _oh!_ that he might be left with a sign of this, some private proof), but always, always returning to swallow him deep. Childermass drank him down like a draught as he spent, hands twisting in the sheets and back arching as he gasped out Childermass’ name mixed seamlessly with oaths he never gave voice to outside this room, the sounds swallowed up by darkness and dying roses.

He was growing used to the taste of himself on Childermass’ tongue, that fading note of his own pleasure as Childermass licked into his mouth and bit at his lip, but it always sparked like flint within him.

As the drowsy haze of his release ebbed, he kissed back more strongly, feeling his way back to himself and to Childermass, turning his fingers to the worthwhile task of drawing the delightful noises from Childermass that, he was learning, he could tease out with judicious attention to his nipples. It seemed such a small thing, such a small act, to provoke such a reaction from Childermass, and Segundus wondered, in a dazed sort of way, if his own delight at the response would ever fade.

When Childermass was groaning against his neck and cursing him under his breath, Segundus pushed him over and slipped down to press kisses to his stomach, his hips, his thighs, delighting in the sound of Childermass’ groans at the feel of his morning-rough cheeks. His own release was still singing in his veins, making him loose and untidy at his work, but Childermass did not seem to mind. Segundus could not see him in the darkness, but could feel his enjoyment in the clutch of his hands and the sound of his murmured curses.

As Childermass gripped at his hair, breath heavy and catching in his throat, Segundus longed suddenly for the summer, for those bright early mornings. He thought of how Childermass must look now, thought of seeing him undone in something more than candlelight, how the pale-pink dawn would look on his flushed cheeks. He groaned to think of it, felt the twitch of Childermass' hips at the sound.

“ _John, John,”_ Childermass urged or pleaded, his voice hoarse and cracking, and Segundus set himself to his task, welcomed the seizing of Childermass’ breath in his lungs and the burst of him over his tongue. Childermass grasped for his hand in the dark, laced their fingers together and held him tightly.

Segundus waited there, rubbing circles on Childermass’ hip with his thumb, until he felt his breathing return to normal. He worked his way back up slowly, tasting the parts of Childermass he could not see, feeling the shape of him – sharp hips, soft belly, raised ribs – with pleasure-sensitised lips, adding to his mental map. He licked at a nipple, lazy and flat-tongued, smiled against Childermass’ skin at his grunt, moved up to kiss his forehead, his nose, his mouth.

Their kisses were slow, their earlier urgency mellowed into long, melting meetings of lips and tongue, Segundus sprawled boneless on top of Childermass, their hands clasped together on the sheets.

“Morning,” Childermass murmured, a rumble so low in his chest it was almost inaudible.

“Mhmm,” Segundus replied, too intent on lavishing gentle bites on Childermass’ lower lip to answer properly. He was just as articulate when Childermass disentangled their hands and brought his grip instead to Segundus’ backside, squeezing the muscle, fingernails digging in unmistakeably.

“If we had more time…” Childermass sighed, lips brushing Segundus’ as he spoke.

“If I did not have to sit opposite Mrs Lennox at breakfast,” Segundus murmured, and smiled to himself when Childermass made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He could see the glimmer of Childermass’ eyes, feel the beat of his heart against his own chest.

Raising himself, Segundus sat back on his heels, rocked back against Childermass’ hips. Neither of them were likely to rise again so soon, but the punched-out sound of Childermass’ breath and the clutch of his fingers told him his promise had been understood. With a quiet laugh, he let himself fall to the mattress at Childermass’ side and turned to face him.

“How will I think of anything else all day?” Childermass asked, his wicked grin clear in his voice. “I will have to give the ladies tours of the house while you teach,” he said, teeth scraping at Segundus’ neck, “and entertain them in the library,” lips fastening at the sensitive spot between neck and shoulder where a bruise would not show, “and every time I close my eyes I will see your face as you...” He sucked strongly.

Segundus groaned – a long, deep noise that Childermass had torn free from his very core. He was not sure if he could see the glint of teeth in the darkness as Childermass pulled back, or if he was just imagining it.

“You will have to do no such thing,” Segundus managed to say.

He slipped his hand into Childermass’ hair and pulled him in for a kiss, gentler than those before. It would have been chaste, almost, if Segundus’ nightshirt had not been still rucked up around his waist and if Childermass wasn’t squeezing his rump in slow, deliberate motions. He laughed again, caught Childermass’ hands in his own and brought them between their chests.

“They are my responsibility. You are here on your own business, I would never presume for you to be under any obligation for any of my guests.” He smiled, kissed the corner of Childermass’ mouth. “Besides, I think they are most likely to spend the day in the parlour.”

Childermass hummed. “What do you think she wants?”

“Oh, to see her investment is maturing I would imagine,” Segundus sighed. “She did not specify in her letter. Perhaps a break from Bath. She has told me many times she has little interest in magic, so I doubt she will be scrutinising the curriculum.”

“A hell of a break from Bath, the North Riding in January,” Childermass scoffed. He was silent a moment. “She's shrewd,” he added, in a voice that would have been dark had there not been a note of admiration in it.

“Yes.” Segundus smiled. “You like her. You would not have visited her in Bath otherwise."

“Perhaps I knew you were there. Perhaps I felt your magic from twenty miles off and raced to see you in your shirtsleeves.”

Segundus sighed as he thought of that day: the heat of the sun; the lazy conversation; the world at an angle as he tried and failed to take his eyes from Childermass’ long form stretched out beside him. He laughed and grasped at Childermass’ forearm as he had longed to then, felt it strong and warm under his grip.

“I was very glad that you turned up in yours,” he said, his thumb rubbing gently at the crook of Childermass’ elbow. He pressed a kiss to Childermass’ throat as he had longed to then, and another, and another, until Childermass pulled him up to his mouth, his hand in Segundus’ hair.

Out in the hall, the clock chimed six.

Childermass sighed. Segundus pulled back and rested his forehead against Childermass’. Dawn was still nearly two hours away, and he could see nothing of Childermass, only feel his warmth and hear his steady breath. He pulled himself away and opened the bedcurtains – gasping a little at the cold waiting outside – and fumbled with the tinderbox to light the candle. The roses were reduced to nothing but faint branches and scattered petals fading on the floor.

When Segundus turned he found Childermass watching him, the shadow of a frown wrinkling his brow. Segundus leant forward to kiss the line between his eyes. Childermass huffed a quiet breath of a laugh, no more. He grasped Segundus’ hand.

“If you would like my help you need only ask,” Childermass said, his low voice barely audible. “You’re not alone with this.”

Segundus smiled, glanced down to their joined hands on the sheets. “I know,” he said. “Thank you.” He leant down and kissed Childermass again, only briefly.

Carefully, silently, Childermass stepped from the bed and padded across the floor towards the dressing room door, stopping to kiss Segundus one last time. It was slow and lingering, and Segundus held on, caressing his forearm in a hopeless attempt to keep him there, but they both knew there was a cold, well-made bed beyond that door that must be warmed and rumpled before the servants stirred. Childermass drew away, and Segundus watched him as well as he could in the small light of the candle as he stepped through that door and locked it behind him with a spell, shivering at the tingle of magic on his skin.

Through the silence of the house, he heard the door at the other side of the dressing room lock, inhaled deeply the warm smoke of Childermass’ magic as he stretched out on his bed, the scent of Childermass’ body and magic both blending together around him. He raised his fingers to his lips, touching them where Childermass’ kiss had been, and smiled.

For some time he lay still, listening to the house come awake around him. Muffled footsteps edged carefully along the corridors, fires were brought back to life, the scent of breakfast cooking wafted up to him. He surprised the maid – a new girl from the village – by being awake and standing by the dark window when she came to stoke the fire, wrapped in his dressing gown to counter the chill.

The day would be a cold one. The last of the stars still hung in the sky as he dressed, bright pinpricks in the cloudless morning. The fires were blazing throughout the house, keeping the knife-sharp cold at bay and making the whole seem to glow.

It would be a quiet morning, he knew, the students reluctant to wake in the darkness and still half-asleep when they stumbled into the dining room, reviving little by little as they sipped their chocolate and ate their hot gruel.

Soon enough, warmed through by the fire and Mrs White’s efforts, the room eased into gentle conversation, coaxed by Segundus’ enquiries into how Mr Levy had slept, he being the most alert of the young gentlemen.

“And you, Mr Childermass?” Levy asked, after he had reassured Segundus that he had indeed slept well. “Were you warm enough? It was a bitter night.”

“Certainly,” Childermass answered with a nod. “I find my bed here is warmer than any other, and I am always glad to return to it.” He very casually avoided Segundus’ eyes, and instead turned to ask James Littler about his uncle’s studies.

Dawn crept through the windows as they ate, tightening her grasp on the curtains and stealing over the table until the sun was fully risen in a clear sky. She was not rosy-fingered, but bright and cool as she glinted off the thick, frost-crusted snow, setting the crisp air alight as the boys filed out of the dining room to their morning lessons.

Segundus quickly became aware of a bottleneck in the hall as the boys paused at the foot of the stairs to bow their good mornings to Mrs Lennox and Mrs Blake, who were on their way to breakfast at a rather more civilised hour than the teachers and students, watching the small procession with a little bemusement. When he apologised that he could not keep them company over their breakfast, he was answered by laughs and explanations that they hardly expected him to alter the school’s routine for their sake, and anyway they were perfectly capable of amusing themselves. Mrs Blake’s smile and good humour were so genuine that Segundus felt no guilt in leaving his guests to fend for themselves.

It was Thursday, which meant that Segundus taught the morning lessons, and Mr Purfois the afternoon. The students were quiet and attentive as he spoke about the symbolism of plants and flowers, were studious as he set them to identifying various dried specimens.

Lunch was a livelier affair than breakfast had been, joined as they were by the ladies. The students seemed at first wary of these important-looking persons, but the table soon fell to merriment as the meal was eaten and the adults made conversation. Segundus explained the position of the young masters – help in the classroom (they each having their own specialities) and supervision in the evenings, and they themselves benefited from the time to do their own research in the ever-growing library and to pick the brains of more experienced (if previously theoretical) magicians.

The young gentlemen took great pleasure in describing their own particular interests, Hadley-Bright winning the attention of the room as he explained the use of magicians in battle and described Mr Strange’s actions during Waterloo.

After lunch, Segundus left the lessons in the capable hands of the young masters and accompanied Mrs Lennox and Mrs Blake on a walk around the grounds, the ladies keen to stretch their legs after their days of travel and intrepid enough not to mind the weather.

The snow of the past few days still lay some inches thick on the ground, hardened to a crust by the morning’s frost. The crack and crunch of it beneath his feet woke something in Segundus, brightened his mind and straightened his spine along with the nip of the fresh air.

The landscape glittered, clear and cold, the pale half-moon hanging above them as it followed the sun at its own slow pace. The world seemed empty, the chatter of the house far behind them, the moorland sheep long urged down into the lower pastures of the valley. The strange, haunting sound of the snipes over the moor made the horizon seem endless, the world stretched white and clean around them.

Segundus felt as bright as the untrod snow as they walked, discussing the business of the school with Mrs Lennox all the while. She laughed at his stories of the small mischiefs the students thought up, listened to his wishes for the future of Starecross as a place where magicians could congregate and work together. The library was ever-growing, he pointed out; explained that in fact the books were one of the reasons the young masters had agreed to take on their positions. Childermass, Segundus said with a smile, was perhaps their greatest resource, as the best of the books were due to his help, and his long experience as a practical magician was not to be beaten anywhere in England.

“He is going hunting again next week, in fact, to Coventry,” Segundus said, and felt a sharp twist somewhere in the region of his sternum.

When Childermass had told him of this plan some days ago, Segundus had not expressed his disappointment. It was for magic’s good that Childermass was going; it was selfishness that made him wish Childermass would stay, he knew, but also concern for Childermass’ own comfort. It was, perhaps, possible to be both selfish and selfless at once; their shared bed was, after all, warmer than either alone. But the business was greater than the both of them, and he turned his mind from the warmth of the shared bed he was only just growing used to as he explained Childermass’ plans to the ladies: his arrangement with Mr Murray to reprint any books of magic of good calibre, the originals to be passed to Starecross when the typesetting was done.

It was an arrangement, Segundus explained, that benefited both magic generally and Starecross specifically. Privately, he wondered how much of the arrangement was an attempt by Childermass to atone for the books that were now lost to them, to redress the deficit his handiwork had left them. He had not spoken of his theory, doubted he would receive an honest answer if he did. If this was a work of redemption, it was not for redemption in the eyes of English magicians, or even of Segundus. Childermass had always worked on a grander scale, he was beginning to realise, than just Norrell. He worked for the advancement of Magic, and used whatever means he could; whatever aim he was working towards now was not to ameliorate any perceived personal slights, but was to open up the scope of magic beyond one man, beyond one institution.

On the rare occasions when Childermass gave voice to any part of his grander ambitions, such a light burned in his eye, such a passion gripped his voice, that Segundus was shaken by it, and wondered how he had come to be swept into the orbit of such a man.

Today, however, out in the sharp, clear air of a moor rendered sparkling white and blank with possibilities, he felt uplifted by the idea of such grand purpose, invigorated at the thought of his small part in what the papers were starting to call the _Restoration of English Magic_. The days were lengthening, slowly but inexorably, and although he as yet little felt the change, it was enough to know it was coming, to be able to look forward to the brightness. He drew in a deep breath of the cold, spangled air and smiled.

He became aware of Mrs Lennox watching him, a curious, amused look on her face. She smiled and turned to say something quietly to Mrs Blake, something that didn’t reach him even through the still air, although he could hear the occasional peal of laughter from the direction of the house even from here, and they walked on.

Mrs Lennox’s aim for the walk seemed to be the high point of the moor which, she said, provided a wonderful outlook over the valley and which would be astounding on such a clear day as today. He was happy to take her direction, to enjoy her and Mrs Blake’s company. It was better discussing the business of the school out here, beneath the sky, his feet tramping down any anxiety like snow.

As they reached the peak, Segundus’ breath caught. The world seemed swept away from him, a patchwork blanket of whitework and lace cast over a sleep-rumpled bed. Every dip and rise in the world seemed highlighted, every hedgerow, and miles away, threading through the valley was the sun-bright curve of the river, meandering its gentle way to the sea. Not a thing seemed to move; the world was held in the moment of taking a breath, its lungs full and vital yet still.

Beside him, Mrs Blake sighed, and everything else exhaled along with her. A raven clambered gracelessly along the bent, twisted bough of a squat moorland tree and flapped alight, cawing hoarsely; Mrs Blake expressed her disappointment at having left her drawing case in her room.

“It is too cold for that, my dear,” Mrs Lennox said, her smile audible. “You’re trembling just standing here; you shall just have to remember it, and render it from your imagination in the warmth of the parlour.”

“We had best be getting back,” Segundus said, blinking the dazzle from his vision. “It is not the kind of day to linger outside, however beautiful it may be.” He stepped towards the ladies and offered Mrs Blake his arm. She was indeed shivering, but no more than he. “I thought you might like to look over some paperwork while there is still daylight.”

Mrs Lennox agreed, and walked on his other side back to Starecross, ignoring his offered arm with a laugh.

Lengthening as the days might be, they were still short, and as the small party returned to the house the sun was racing towards the western horizon, the windows catching the coral light in their panes and making the whole front glow cheerfully.

The fire in the great hall was welcome as they stepped in, the parlour even more so. As the ladies warmed themselves by the fire, Segundus went to collect his papers from his study, and when he could not find them there went to the library. There he found Childermass, sat by the window to catch the last of the light, the edges of him cast in that red glow.

“Where is Vinculus?” Segundus asked, glancing around and seeing no one else in the room.

From his seat, Childermass gave a scoffing laugh. “It was too cold for him today, he’s gone to cosy up with Mrs White.” He glanced up from his reading and smiled at Segundus. “And cold it must be,” he said, his smile curling, “red as your cheeks are after your walk.”

Segundus was able to do little more than smile in response, his breath caught in his chest as it had looking over that endless landscape. Then he had thought he could see every leaf on every branch, miles away as they might be; now he felt as though he could see each individual fleck of colour in Childermass’ eyes, in his hair.

A shiver passed up his spine and he heard the door shut firmly behind him, and then Childermass was standing, slow and easy as he unfolded himself from the window seat. He placed his hands – cool from sitting so far from the fire – on Segundus’ hot cheeks and looked at him steadily for some moments before leaning in and kissing him, firmly and deliberately. Segundus leaned into it, letting himself have this moment, in the fading daylight in the library as they were, letting his hands find their place on Childermass’ sides.

“Mmm,” he said as the clock chimed four from the mantelpiece, pulling back with a last nudge of Childermass’ nose. “I must get back to the ladies.” A kiss to the point of Childermass’ chin, rough already with stubble. “I only came to collect some paperwork,” he laughed, and Childermass kissed the corner of his smile before stepping away.

Downstairs, a door opened and let out a high stream of children’s voices.

“Very well.”

There was a great air of ironic humour hanging about Childermass, and Segundus was rather amazed to find himself amused by it rather than irritated. He moved to the desk to collect the papers lying there, and paused as he reached the door.

“I was thinking,” he began, looking over his shoulder to see Childermass standing by the fire, “if Mrs Lennox is returning to Bath next week as she plans, you may be as well travelling with her as far as Coventry. It is on her route, and I have been telling her about your work; I am sure she would be interested to hear it better put than I could relate it.”

He left before Childermass could answer, and returned to the parlour where he and Mrs Lennox poured over the papers until the gong sounded for dinner.

The meal was hearty and restorative, the students chattering excitedly about a myriad of subjects. Segundus found himself between Mrs Lennox and Childermass, and enjoyed himself greatly watching their conversation. It was a little like watching a game of battledore, with their parrying of comments about certain London persons and establishments, questions about politics and business. It was all done in good spirits, and Segundus could see the sharp corner of Childermass’ one-sided smile and the gleam in his eye as he found a good partner in Mrs Lennox, who for her part was speaking quickly and decisively while smiling widely.

Between Levy and Purfois, Mrs Blake was watching with equal amusement. Segundus caught her eye; she smiled and raised one pale brow, which made him laugh suddenly enough that the conversation happening across him was interrupted.

It seemed that Mrs Blake had been quite intrigued by the earlier discussion of Childermass’ work, and took advantage in the break to ask more about the King’s Book and the travelling that was necessary to exhibit Vinculus so widely, which led Segundus on to discuss his hopes that Starecross might in time attract more grown-up magicians and become a centre of sorts for research and discussion, or for the work on the King’s Letters if Childermass and Vinculus grew weary of all the travel.

At this Childermass laughed, and made a joke about Segundus wanting to keep the King’s Book to himself, at which Segundus frowned and began on his favourite argument on the necessity of making such work accessible and that he did not intend to hoard anything, which only made Childermass laugh again. He knew he was being teased, but let himself continue on his well-practised speech if only to see the fond amusement on Childermass’ face.

When the meal was done and the boys filed out to the library and the common room to work or play, each giving Mrs Lennox and Mrs Blake a solemn bow and wishing them goodnight, followed by the young masters, Mrs Lennox sat back with a sigh and smiled at Segundus.

“What a cheerful place this is!” She turned to Mrs Blake. “Do you not agree, my dear?”

“Oh!” cried Mrs Blake. “It is such a delight – I can barely recall it being the same dreary place we first met you, Mr Segundus.” She glanced over to Mrs Lennox, who seemed to communicate something to her companion with a look. “Although I have seen only a little of the renovations!” She turned to Childermass with a smile. “I wonder if you might show me the classrooms, Mr Childermass? You spoke so highly of the teaching earlier that I would love to see where it is done – I am sure a magical classroom is much different from my own schoolroom!”

Childermass acquiesced and offered his arm to guide the lady away, casting a curious look back over his shoulder at Segundus as he left the room.

The sudden quiet of the room, until a moment ago so bustling and full of conversation, was strange, so Segundus cleared his throat.

“Shall we retire to the parlour?” he asked. There was something determined in Mrs Lennox’s demeanour. “Excellent as these chairs are for dining, they are not very comfortable for conversation, and I have there an excellent brandy given by Lady Pole.”

“A marvellous idea, Mr Segundus,” she agreed, and he followed her to his feet.

Mrs Lennox did not feign any need for guidance around Starecross, and wound her way through the corridors with confidence, proclaiming how wonderful it was to see such life and bustle around the old place after it had lain empty for so many years.

When they reached the parlour, she immediately spotted the drinks cabinet and poured them each a large glass of brandy. Segundus took the glass she offered him and waited for her to sit, in the strange position of trying to play host to the owner of his home.

She made herself comfortable on the sopha, and Segundus settled in the high-backed armchair which was his habitual seat. He listened, smiling, as Mrs Lennox spent some minutes exclaiming how delighted she was to see the school finally up and running, and how wonderfully he had dealt with the repairs and restorations of the old hall.

“In fact,” she said, “I barely recognise it as the same house Louisa and I visited two years ago. It feels more like the Starecross I knew as a child, and for that I am very grateful. I told you once it should be a happy place, and I cannot express how pleased I am that you are making it so.”

Mr Segundus blushed. “None of it could have happened without your generosity, madam. It is all down to you.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Mrs Lennox snorted. “Now, before I ban all talk of business for the evening, I have a request. I hope you will not take this as my wishing to interfere, but I would like to sit in on your lessons tomorrow. I like to have a little practical knowledge of how my investments operate, you see, even if I am not directly involved in the minutiae of their running.”

“Oh, of course!” Segundus replied, knowing he would have been unable to refuse the request even had he wished to, Starecross being her property and, for now, funded entirely by her money. He knew the fees from the current students went a very small way to covering the initial outlay of the renovations.

“I find it fascinating to see people at their work – it shines such a light on their character,” Mrs Lennox continued. “And although I would never dream of telling you how best to teach magic, knowing nothing of the subject as I do, I believe I went through enough governesses as a girl to be able to tell good teaching from bad.” She laughed a little. “Not that I am expecting to see anything like the latter here, of course.”

Segundus laughed, and it only came out a little strained.

“Now then, with that arranged there shall be no more talk of business tonight. I should like to consider you a friend, Mr Segundus, and not just a business partner.” She was brisk but smiling. “And thus I expect all the gossip required from friendship.”

So they spent some time discussing Mr Honeyfoot’s daughters – Segundus told her how Miss Catherine was now Mrs Roberts, and how Miss Jane had seemed to make up her mind to put marriage off for a few more years to study magic, much to her mother’s apparent exasperation.

“She says that there is too much of her father in her, but she says it fondly.”

Mrs Lennox described some petty scandal which had shocked Bath, although the reasons why it was so shocking, she said, escaped her. She updated him on the doings of some mutual acquaintances, and told him of her friends who, “I really should introduce you to, Mr Segundus, I feel you would get along splendidly.”

He described the latest to-do at the York Society and how Dr Foxcastle had become so angry he had gone entirely silent, something that not even ancient Mr Aptree had ever witnessed. Mrs Lennox laughed delightedly at this (having received many reports of the Society’s doings and characters in Segundus’ letters) and described an encounter with an old grump she and Mrs Blake had had on the journey to Starecross.

“She complains that she is getting old, but I tell her what nonsense that is. You ought to have seen her in action, Mr Segundus. ‘ _Louisa, my dear_ ,’ I told her when she had seen the boor off, ‘ _you are quite as fit and fierce as the first we met!_ ’ And indeed you saw that yourself this afternoon: the intrepid adventuress, hiking through snow and ice!” With a small smile she glanced to the small table where Mrs Blake had settled earlier to put down her artistic impressions of the view.

“How long have you been companions?” Segundus asked. He felt he was on the verge of understanding something about his patron.

“Louisa has been with me these past, oh, twenty years.” She a laughed a little, but more to herself than to Segundus. “Some of our friends joke that we have been together longer than either of us were with our husbands.” To Segundus’ senses, she did not seem particularly bothered by this. “We found early in our acquaintanceship that we were well suited.”

“That seems very fortuitous,” he said with a smile. “There is something to be said for finding a firm friend in another so instantly.”

“Indeed,” chuckled Mrs Lennox. “But I gather that was not your experience with Mr Childermass?”

“Certainly not!” Segundus laughed. He thought of the still hazy memories of his visit to the library at Hurtfew, felt Childermass’ piercing gaze on him; the peculiar intensity of his silence after the magic at the cathedral. “He hides his particular charms well.”

“Yet he has charmed you.” It was a statement, but there was a different question in Mrs Lennox’s eyes when Segundus looked to her in surprize. His heart leapt into his throat and his spine straightened like an iron poker.

“I do not know what you are implying.” The words came out more curtly than he had meant them to, and he felt his defensiveness adding to his guilt. He should have known better than to become comfortable with his situation; ruin had never been far round the corner from him. Mrs Lennox looked at him for a moment with a curious expression.

“Come now,” she sighed. “Have I not said I consider you a friend?”

“I am sorry,” he said, his mind reeling. “But I do not know what you mean.”

Mrs Lennox’s posture relaxed, and she leaned in towards him with a sigh. “Mr Segundus, you need not lie to me. It is more than my house that Louisa shares with me.” Her gaze was firm, but there was kindness in the corners of her small smile. “We are more alike than you think, John. I would have you be honest with me.”

Segundus was frozen, his knuckles white around his glass of brandy, his jaw clamped shut.

“I must admit that it took a while, but Mr Childermass has grown on me. He is clever and, despite appearances, excellent company.” She paused, a silence engineered to make Segundus look at her. When he did, she placed a hand on top of his. “I am glad you are happy, John. I had worried that your life at Starecross would be lonely.” Her smile relaxed into something softer. “It is a happy place, not meant for loneliness.”

“How…?” He found he could not finish the question. Something sharp and hot had lodged in his throat. They had been so careful, he had thought…

“I happened to take a turn around the grounds when you visited Bath in the summer, and saw you both at the pond. Your familiarity was rather unmistakable, to one used to looking for such things.”

“Oh, but we were not-” he cut himself off, thinking of that hot August day, the peace he had felt with Childermass so near, their feet touching beneath the cool surface of the water. He swallowed and felt his cheeks burn, although Mrs Lennox seemed quite unperturbed. “It is a more recent development than that.”

This made Mrs Lennox sit up straight, her eyebrows moving up her forehead. “Oh? That does surprize me.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Segundus willing the burning away from his face and Mrs Lennox smiling at him indulgently.

“I am not trying to embarrass you, Mr Segundus.” Her voice was more gentle than it had been, the teasing note gone, but he could barely hear her over the panic buzzing in his mind, swirling and dense as a swarm of bees. “I only wish to present myself as your friend and ally in such matters.”

“If you would like me to stand down, I understand,” he said, looking at where his knuckles turned white as he clutched his glass. “I could recommend a number of persons who would be excellent-”

“John, be quiet.” This she said so sharply that he turned to look at her. “I have said that I am your friend and ally: I would no sooner oust you from your position than burn Starecross to the ground.” He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. “I only wish to know the truth in order that I may protect you, not that I expect anything to ever come to light. You both seem to me incredibly discreet.” She stared at him with a twinkle of humour in her eyes, and the tension which had been building unbearably in his guts eased a little. “Now, answer me honestly and we’ll be done with it: do you love him?”

He swallowed, his cheeks burning so that he thought they must be glowing. It was not something he had yet articulated to Childermass, not something they had discussed or – Segundus couldn’t help but think – would ever discuss so openly.

“I do,” he said, and bit his lip. He felt giddy saying it, even here.

“There, now we can be past it, and I can be prepared should anything come to light, not – and I shall repeat myself to ensure that you are listening, Mr Segundus – that I expect anything at all to reach me. Are we both satisfied?”

“We are, Mrs Lennox,” Segundus answered with a smile, the tension inside him unspooling. “Thank you. I could not…” He could not find a way to finish the thought through all the gratitude and relief rushing inside him. Instead, he said again, “Thank you.”

“Very good,” she said curtly, and finished her glass. “I shall rest easier tonight knowing it is settled. Good night, Mr Segundus. I look forward to seeing you at work tomorrow.”

He stood to sketch her an unsteady bow as she rose to leave. As the door shut behind her, he fell back into his chair and pressed his hands to his face, laughing.


	13. epilogue - february 1818

Childermass made sure to be in Yorkshire for mid-February. He held no real hope, but the part of him that had listened to the tales of wandering magicians as a child had latched onto “ _a year and a day_ ", without any conscious effort on his part. Whether he believed it or not was a different matter.

That said, the accuracy of his hunches was something he took a little pride in, so he saddled Brewer early on the tenth and began his ride north, apologising to the mayor of a small town in Gloucestershire for cutting his business short and promising to write with a solution after consulting his colleagues before taking once more to the road. Aside from any hunches he might have had, he had surprized himself a little at being pleased by the excuse to return to the north.

His pace had been steady, the February weather cold and grey and drizzling. He had travelled in worse: there was no bright sunshine to dazzle his eyes nor any biblical downpour to turn the roads to a quagmire, which was all he would hope for. The drizzle would soak, but the brim of his hat would keep it from his eyes, and the road was not so muddy as to stall their progress. His coat had seen him through many winter rides, and would see him through many more; Brewer was steadfast and uncomplaining as always, happy as long as he was given a clean stall and fresh hay at the end of the day.

As with so many journeys, he kept his nightly stops to the roadside inns. He enjoyed them at this time of year: not so full of the high-born few stopping on their way from one grand party to another, the air less saturated with their braying voices and sniffing displeasure. Instead the taprooms and firesides were crowded with people of purpose, men and women gathered together to warm themselves in comfort and solidarity after a day of hard labour, allowing themselves the laughter and storytelling such cold, damp nights necessitated.

Childermass joined in, listening to the stories and telling some of his own (Childermass had many stories), listening intently to those who spoke or sang and watching intently those who did neither. Magicians valued books above rubies, but books were only words given physical form. Words began in the minds and on the tongues of men. They grew from somewhere far older than ink and paper, charcoal and birch bark, stylus and clay.

Books were useful, yes, and he coveted and hunted them himself: they stabilised the words and made them fast so they could not be forgotten by the fallible minds of men, but in fixing them so they lost the magic of change, the importance of malleability.

That was the failing of modern magicians, he thought as he smoked his pipe and listened to an old shepherd sing the story of long-ago drowned children. The words they read were fixed, so their ideas were fixed. They did not know about the circumstances of magic, of the roughness of it, how a particular spell had to be cast in new and different forms each time, how it had to be bent and moulded to each situation. No two ash trees grew to be identical – they reflected their own patch of soil and their own ration of sunlight, they twisted round or hunkered under the brambles and ivy which may grow around them. Why should a spell be any different?

There were magicians who thought differently, he knew: Norrell had known it, once, but had been too keen to cement his own words as the only way and had fallen into that same ossifying trap as the books he hoarded; Strange had known it once he had found his way out from under Norrell’s gaze, Childermass had seen the difference in him when he had returned from the Peninsula, brown-faced and older around the eyes; Childermass himself knew it, had always known it no matter how steadfastly Norrell had clung to his books and his stone-firm ideas (magic had, after all, wound its way into Childermass’ heart and mind as a child, growing like bindweed years before he taught himself to read, now blooming its loud trumpet-bell flowers in his chest).

Segundus knew it, too, and that had taken him rather aback: that moment before Lady Pole when Childermass had seen him reach with instinct rather than thought for spoon and bodkin, and Childermass had felt his own regard for the man (which had been growing slowly, steadily ever since that dark snow-shrouded morning in York) swell.

They had never discussed it, but Childermass often watched Segundus’ face as they performed magic, noticed the barely perceptible pause as he thought, only for half a moment, and adjusted a spell minutely to better fit the atmosphere, just as he moved the plants in the Starecross garden to a place where the light or soil might better suit them. Childermass had spent too many minutes to count watching the way Segundus’ eyes would catch on a flock of birds, on a drift of leaves, on the water in a brook, watching the way his brows would pull together in a frown of concentration in the same way they did when he hunched over Vinculus’ skin.

Books, for Segundus, were a starting point, a useful tool. They were not the be-all-end-all they were for those like Norrell, like Foxcastle, like every other subscriber to the newspapers and periodicals. Segundus was glad for the magicians of the past, was gleeful, even, to read their work (Childermass remembered well the open look of wonder the man had worn when he set eyes on the Hurtfew library, had seen the spark of possibility in him), but he knew that one magician from three hundred years ago could not hold every answer. Segundus saw them for what they were: the thoughts of men and women set down, there to be investigated and evaluated and picked at until the bones of them were clean, all that was useful to be salvaged and repurposed to form something new, that might do the job better in this new world they had seen born, that they had helped deliver.

It was not new, the way his thoughts turned to Segundus when he had the rare opportunity to let his mind wander, although it was happening with increasing regularity. He had spent some time a decade past thinking over that glint of wonder in the dim winter light of the library, of the bright, suspicious expression standing fast against his own silence that snowy morning the world had changed for them all, the shiver of great magic still in the air, as he wondered what lay behind a man with such clear and simple curiosity. Time hadn’t faded those images as it had others, subsequent meetings had not wiped away those initial conceptions he had had of Segundus’ character, yet still he found himself continually surprized.

The fire burned in his room – his own, for the first time this journey, the inn quiet enough to allow him a small room with a small bed, but there was a fireplace and a quilt and that was all he needed. Tomorrow he would reach York, the day after he would be home. It was a thought that washed casually through him, but a moment later made him sit up and examine it.

It was a strange thought for him,  _ home _ , almost discomfiting in the ease with which it had come to him. He had never held much to the concept, had never had enough of one as a child for it to stick.

Part of it was, of course, what had always driven him: magic, the study and discussion of it (again he saw that glowing wonder of Segundus’ as he gazed around the library, so many years distant but still so bright in his memory). Magic would still be part of it even if there was nothing more, and were that the case Childermass would still be content to sit by the fire in that small, warm library for the sake of Segundus’ keen and kind intellect, hollow as it may make his heart feel. That dull ache would be a small price to pay for such companionship.

But something more did await, and Childermass was as glad of it as he was taken aback by it. The feeling, when he had first noticed the stirrings of it, was more inconvenient than anything else, but to know now, so many years later, that some of that kindness, some of that warmth, was his and his alone was enough to tempt him to the King’s Roads to make swifter his return. It made the wanting that much keener, knowing what awaited him. He felt, in this dark, lonely inn filled with the muffled sounds of strangers’ lives, like a starving man who has scavenged a scrap from the king’s table, something hot and rich and delicious, but who knows it will be days before he can be properly sated.

The thought of the feast to come was comfort enough for him, and he fell asleep thinking of the touch of John Segundus’ kiss.

The next evening he stopped at York in time for dusk – he had business to attend to and people see in the city, after all – and in the morning found himself passing the cathedral as dawn broke, the great soaring façade glowing softly in the overcast February light. An urge gripped him, seizing him by the shoulders and pressing him to enter. Having no reason not to, he did.

Childermass was not a man of any great faith; he knew his own heart and knew where its allegiances lay. There was something about these monuments, however, that conjured wonder in even the sceptic’s heart. It was nothing to do with the holy ghost, but the determination of men, their capabilities and their vision to create something magnificent. He thought again of Norrell, of the days of discussion they had gone through to choose the arena for his display. Childermass had not been sure his master would approve of the plan, that the part of him that yearned for respectability would refuse it as heretical, but he had agreed, somewhat to Childermass' surprize.

He thought now of that cold, dark morning, of the hunched and frightened figures of the York Society skittering around the cathedral like dead leaves in a gale as the stones scraped out their stories like centuries of dust.

He thought of Segundus, a decade ago, standing on those steps and telling him, “ _ No” _ ; he thought of Segundus, in this great echoing nave, looking around him in wonder and awe. He thought of Segundus as he would be now, sleep-rumpled and waking and within a day's ride.

The inn was close, and with the ease and swiftness of long practice he saddled Brewer and took to the road.

The ride to Starecross was neither leisurely nor hurried. The landscape did not blur past him as it had a year ago when his cheek had felt cold with blood and his mind disordered with something he could still not quite remember, but he did not slow to admire it. He knew his destination and he kept his eyes ahead. Brewer knew, too, and followed the direct route. The February day was kind to them: it was colder in Yorkshire than it had been in Gloucestershire, but drier. He did not mind the rain, but, he thought with a smile, Segundus might object to being pressed against the wall by a man with wet arms and thighs. The thought kept him warm as the thin layer of cloud peeled away to let the thin sun spill over the moors, a thousand little puddles and rivulets glinting palely before him as though they were lighting the way to the Other Lands.

It was late when he reached Starecross, the last exhausted rays of the weak sun clinging on to the grey stones of the building, but the increasingly crisp air was caught and warmed in the stables, and the time spent unsaddling Brewer and brushing him down also worked to get some blood back to his own hands and feet as he listened to Davey’s happy gossip with half an ear.

The school was full and busy, the cheer and bustle audible even from here. His bags felt heavier than they had in York as he picked them up to carry them into the hall, his eyes gritty with fatigue. Now that he had arrived the week of travel had settled on him like dust from the road.

Not wanting the attention of the household, he slipped in the back door and through the kitchen, shrouding himself in a little light shadow to avoid Mrs White catching him in her endless conversation, although he saw her shiver and cast over her shoulder with a frown, telling Dido off for leaving the door ajar on such a cold evening.

Inside, the school was full of more than just the teachers and students. The anniversary had brought a host of guests, and Childermass was content to avoid them for now, travel-weary and road-grimed as he was. He paused in the back corridor and peeked through to the main hall to examine the cheerful congregation.

As well as the students (who seemed in a great excitement), Lady Pole and Arabella Strange sat together by the fire, and gathered around the harpsichord were more Honeyfeet than Childermass had ever seen in one place. By the window sat Vinculus with a group of wide-eyed boys around him; Childermass dreaded to think what his tale involved.

He propped himself against a wall and let himself watch, unnoticed. He was glad for the people filling the house, for the bright conversation bubbling up, for the light music provided by one of Mr Honeyfoot’s daughters (who was acquiring rather a circle of students around her). It contrasted with the Starecross of a year ago, dripping with enchantment and isolation. He could still see Segundus, the huge, dark house an empty labyrinth around him. He smiled to himself a little as he watched the crowd, but there was a sharp bitter taste pooling at the corners of his jaw. He watched Lady Pole and Mrs Strange more closely than the others and could see the air of festivity had not infected them. They spoke little to each other, but their looks communicated more than words perhaps could over the cheer. Mrs Strange swallowed deeply and looked up, seeming to look straight through his shadows and through him, too. He stayed still and silent, meeting her eyes.

She had lost more than anyone, a year ago. Her husband and her home, her possessions and her memories; she herself stranded a continent away and unable to do anything but mourn. He felt the loss of Hurtfew in a sudden pang, the foundations he had been building on top of the hollow it had left in him crumbling like a subsiding cliff. He swallowed and nodded his head, unsure if she could see him or if she just happened to be looking in his direction. He wondered again at his certainty, felt it slip.  _ A year and a day _ did not seem the correct price to pay for the changes wrought. What were the other common contracts? A hundred years? A thousand?

What was the return of English magic worth?

“Davey said you had arrived.” The voice came from behind him, soft so as not to be heard by the rest of the party. Childermass turned to look. “I wondered why I did not hear you announced. I should have known you would be lurking somewhere, looking disreputable.”

“I always look disreputable,” answered Childermass, a smile jerking across his mouth at the sight of Segundus’ own, disrupting his melancholy thoughts.

“Sometimes more than others.” Segundus glanced around quickly and reached forward to squeeze Childermass’ hand. “Come to my study, I have something to shew you before dinner.”

Childermass gave him a slow nod, and gripped his hand tightly before Segundus went into the room. Mr Honeyfoot let out a cry of “Mr Segundus!” and beckoned him over to solve an argument. Childermass slipped back through to the kitchen and went up the back stairs.

Knowing Segundus would be a while delayed by Honeyfoot, he stopped Charles on the stairs and asked for some warm water in his room to freshen himself up after his journey. He scrubbed himself clean, sorted his queue, and changed his clothes for some he had not spent five days on a horse in. He felt almost immediately brighter, and when he got to Segundus’ study found it uninhabited.

The room was positioned in the southern part of the house, so as to catch as much light throughout the day as possible. The sun was on its way to setting now, casting a black and orange lattice over all the accoutrements of a magician’s study. Childermass waved his hand across a candle on the desk, lighting it with a thought; it was such a simple use for magic that he would have shied away from using it a year ago, worried that this flood of magic through England would eventually ebb and dry up. He would never have thought of using it for something so wasteful. The study, illuminated by candle and by setting sun, was a sight that was familiar to Childermass, in the general if not in the details. He let his eyes rove over the space, noticing the small changes that had accumulated over the last few weeks.

Segundus had acquired a small pair of curtains which now hung either side of the large mirror above the fireplace (a precaution Childermass had been meaning to advise him of, but was impressed to see acted upon independently), and a small vase of snowdrops sat on the desk, one bloom lying dissected upon a wooden board before the seat, its petals scattered and its stalk now a cross section of itself. Beside the ruin lay a copy of Okeford’s  _ The Uses and Aspects of Flowers,  _ open at a paragraph detailing the anatomy of the snowdrop, and the magical uses of each organ. Childermass leaned in to read the notes Segundus had jotted in his memorandum book in the dying afternoon light.

“I wondered if it might be possible to apply them to some spell of purification.” He had heard Segundus’ careful footsteps coming closer, so was not surprized at the sound of his voice.

“You don’t set much stock by Okeford, I see.” Childermass looked over his shoulder with a wry smile, and saw Segundus’ face twist in distaste.

“I find he is over-concerned with  _ fertility _ . One cannot read a paragraph without some mention.” Segundus closed the door and moved to sit in the chair on the far side of the desk with a sigh. “Although it no doubt plays a part, it does become tiring when other possibilities are passed over in favour of it.”

“And how is your research on purification coming?” Childermass asked, slipping into the chair which by all means should have been Segundus’.

“Oh, fairly well,” he answered. “I think there may be some application for the purification of the mind. Oh, do not give me that look,” he laughed, as Childermass could not hold back his smirk. “I mean with the particular form of lunacy which shews itself in old age. I am working on a spell which I hope will purify the memory of afflicted persons and return them to their usual selves. There is a lady in the village – Mrs Gowers – who I think could improve by it.”

“That is a fine use for magic,” Childermass said. The enthusiasm that had danced over Segundus’ face as he described his project made Childermass’ weariness ease. He settled back in the chair, glad for the padded leather back.

“Her family approached me. They seem to think I have a special knowledge, having been both a magician and a mad-house keeper.” His face compressed into a frown and he raised a hand to swat some invisible thing away from his nose. “Anyway, this is all beside the point. This is what I wished to shew you.”

He rose from his chair and picked a book from a shelf. He tucked it under his arm and whisked the remains of the snowdrop away from Childermass, setting the book in its place. Childermass felt the warmth from him as he leaned close to open it to the particular page he needed. Unable to stay his hand, Childermass took a light hold around Segundus’ wrist. The contact worked to still the bustle in Segundus, to catch the breath in his throat.

“I am keen to hear what you have to say,” Childermass said slowly, circling his thumb absently over the delicate skin of Segundus’ wrist, “but I will be here for days. At this moment I am just glad to be among friends.”

“But I am sure I have made a kind of breakthrough, are you sure you do not-”

“I am sure.” He pulled Segundus towards him, a gentle tug on his wrist, and drew him onto his lap. Segundus laughed, quietly and lightly, and let himself be settled.

“The others are downstairs and the door is unlocked,” Segundus warned, but his voice carried a note of humour and his hands alighted warmly on Childermass’, where they linked together over his belly.

Childermass pressed his nose into his neck to inhale the scent of him. “Worry not,” he said, caught between a laugh and a sigh. “I’m a little tired just now to ravish you entirely.” Segundus laughed and leaned back into him. “Let us just sit a while.” He kissed Segundus’ ear, his jaw, and sighed. His eyes closed as he rested his cheek against Segundus’ shoulder. Soft lips brushed against his temple and something in his shoulders unlocked.

“I have missed you.” The hands atop his tightened so slightly that Childermass might have imagined it, but then Segundus slipped his fingers into the gaps between Childermass’ own. His weight was warm and solid, and Childermass felt the parts of himself that had become shaken apart during his journey slowly melt together once more under him.

He did not say anything in reply; he knew Segundus did not require it of him. He just sat for that peaceful moment, anchored and anchoring, until they heard footsteps coming along the corridor. Segundus kissed him gently on the lips and slipped from his arms, standing just as someone knocked on the door.

It was Charles. “Begging pardon, sirs, but dinner will be ready shortly,” he said when Segundus had called for him to enter. “And Mrs Lennox has arrived, Mr Segundus.”

“We will be right down, please reassure her.”

Childermass pushed to his feet with a sigh and an involuntary groan that would not have come from him ten years earlier.

“Well,” he said, stretching his shoulders back and stifling a yawn. “Let’s get this over with.”

The evening was merrier than he could have hoped for. The students each stood and took their turn to recite a poem, or a portion of a book they had translated from the Latin, all finishing to the sound of applause from the adults. Childermass talked of his adventures since his last visit (he was reluctant to name them such, but the students seemed determined to view them in that way): his conversation about the deciphering of symbols with Dr Young; his argument with a lawyer in a village in Derbyshire over accepting the employment of Fairies; and his investigation of a barrow in Gloucestershire which was provoking a great deal of unease in the mayor.

This last tale drew the attention of all the students and the adults (some expressions sharper than others), and at their request he explained the precautions he had taken: tying around his wrist a scarlet ribbon, and carrying with him a small stone he had found on a beach near Grimsby through which a hole had been bored by the ocean. This stone, he explained as he held it up for general view, when held in front of the eye and looked through dispelled any visual illusions placed by enchantment. Thus he had made his way into the barrow through a chink which had lately appeared, protecting himself with Ormskirk’s charm to dispel illusion, securing it with his stone and ribbon, and had found the barrow to be nothing out of the ordinary. The opening was, it seemed, due more to the settling of earth caused by some nearby industry than from any supernatural interference. He had realised this on his journey, and reminded himself to write to the mayor in reassurance.

Segundus thanked him for such an educational tale, and then sent the students off to bed, as it was past nine.

As the adults retired to the drawing room, the mood turned quiet and sombre; without the excitable presence of the students, without their youthful naivety to cushion, thoughts and talk turned to what had been lost.

Arabella Strange said little, but stared at the fire as Lady Pole talked of Stephen Black. Childermass kept himself quiet, his grief had never been something to be shared, but he watched as Segundus looked to Mrs Strange, saw the expressions exchanged, and was unsurprized when Segundus began to speak of Strange: of his friendship, his genius, the wonder of his magic ( _ cut grass and thunder _ , Childermass remembered, and the heat of a summer’s day). Segundus wondered, more quietly and carefully, about the magic they might be doing, Strange and Norrell, in their tower of darkness.

Childermass thought of Hurtfew as it had been, grand and lonely in its grounds but warm within. He thought of the well-worn flags and warm fires of the servants’ hall and kitchen, the cheerful chatter that grew quieter as one moved to the drawing room, to the library. There had been companionship there; there had been a home. What was Hurtfew, now, trapped in never-ending night, holding only two souls? They were comfortable, Childermass knew. The cards had told him that much, but had been obstinate about saying anything more. Secluded away from the world with nothing but his books and Mr Strange, Norrell could want for nothing more, Childermass knew.

He remembered the tower of darkness, shivered a little at the memory; he had come close to joining them, he knew. He stroked absently at the scar on his cheek, a year old now, and looked up from the fire to find Segundus watching him, a line of concern etched between his brows.

That look twisted something in him, something deep and warm and visceral. He could not help the smile that crept across his face to be frowned at so, and waved away Segundus’ worry. He was only tired, he tried to say with the gesture and the smile, tired and overly given to introspection. This seemed to work, as Segundus inclined his head a little and a moment later turned to Honeyfoot, who was nodding off in fits and starts in his chair, and declared how late it was getting, and they had best retire for the night.

With the house so full, Childermass waited in his own bed until all was silent.

The floorboards were chill against his bare feet as he trod softly to the dressing room door. In that small in-between room he paused and listened. He saw the soft glow of candlelight below the door before he heard the sigh and rustle of bedsheets, and smiled as he eased the second door open and slipped into Segundus’ bedchamber.

He found Segundus sitting up, spectacles propped on his nose as he read. Those were new. They rendered something different about Segundus, and it took Childermass a moment to realise that he no longer frowned down at his reading as though he was very stubbornly disagreeing with the author, which Childermass realised he would miss, strange as it may be.

Segundus, engrossed in his pamphlet, only looked up at the sound of the lock, but glanced over so quickly and with such a surprized expression on his face that Childermass could not help but smile.

“John!” Segundus cried, and moved to get out of bed. Childermass held up a hand to stop him, and moved forward himself to climb in. “I hadn’t thought to see you tonight – you seemed so tired.”

“I cannot deny that,” Childermass said with a sigh. The journey still hung upon him like lead weights. “But my own bed was cold.” He reached forward to rest his hand on the warm skin of Segundus’ neck, just where it met his shoulder, where his nightshirt had slipped down. A thought occurred to him, one he did not want to focus on too clearly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, of course not!” Segundus smiled, a flush rising to his cheeks. “I had worried you wouldn’t come, rather than otherwise.”

Childermass just smiled and nodded slowly, using the hand on Segundus’ neck to pull him closer.

“You are happy with me, John?” The question rose to his lips unbidden, seeping from the overfull place in his chest. In a moment, Segundus frowned once more. “I only ask,” he added, as he could see a number of questions poised to rush forth, “because I would like to be sure that you are as happy as I.”

Joy burst across Segundus’ face like a grouse startled from the moor.

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “I believe I am.”

Childermass leaned across, then, and kissed him; felt the moment Segundus sighed and melted toward him.

He had not expected, a year ago, to have this place to call home. It was not something he had thought to have for himself: this warm, responsive man beside him, twining his fingers in Childermass’ hair. Having not expected it, he found himself surprized at each return by the open arms awaiting him, the wonder-filled eyes sparking at the sight of him.

“Lie back,” Segundus said, palm flat against his chest and pushing gently but firmly. Childermass laughed a little at that, couldn’t help himself at the sight of the sternness in Segundus’ eyes. He acquiesced.

As soon as his head met the pillow, he realised how heavy it had become. He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut against his will. Segundus’ palm remained on his chest, warm and steady as his own heart. He stretched his legs out under the covers, eased out his aching back. Segundus’ fingers slipped under the collar of his nightshirt to rest against his skin, to rub soothing circles over his chest. When Segundus’ nails scratched lightly against his skin, they pulled a rumble of satisfaction from him forcibly. This noise seemed to tug Segundus closer to him, to draw his lips to Childermass’, soft and open to the nip of Childermass’ teeth.

“Mmmm,” Childermass said, and covered the hand on his chest with his own. “I had so much planned for this night.” He smiled, loved the feel of Segundus’ mouth against it. “I thought of little else the entire ride from Tewkesbury.” Under his touch, Segundus’ fingers flexed, scratching his skin once more. He opened his eyes – a greater effort than he would have wished – and looked up into Segundus’ gentle gaze. “But I am afraid my efforts must go to waste.”

In the candlelight, Segundus’ eyelashes seemed to glow as he glanced down to their joined hands.

“Sleep,” he said, and kissed Childermass’ frown. “Plans do not go to waste, they are merely delayed.” He laughed a little, in truth more a smile and a breath than a laugh, and once more met Childermass’ gaze. “Look at my school,” he said, and the smile grew wider. “Thriving despite my plans being thwarted by sinister men.”

“Mmm.” Childermass closed his eyes once more, unable to keep them open. “In the morning I’ll shew you what sinister men can do.”

Segundus laughed and kissed him. A moment later Childermass heard his puff of breath and caught the scent of candle smoke, and then Segundus was lying down, pressed alongside him, their hands still joined and heavy on Childermass’ chest.

“Goodnight, my love.” Segundus said, and kissed the silvery scar on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful [@palavapeite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite) for the beta on this chapter after i had an "oh no it's nearly over!" crisis <3
> 
> So many, many thanks to everyone who's read and kudos'd and commented along with this "was going to be posted a month at a time but then wasn't but has actually pretty much averaged out at that" little experiment, this has been such a fun exercise and it's been great having you along for the ride!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the measure of the year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940241) by [marianas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marianas/pseuds/marianas)




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